Spanish  Gypsy 

ELIOT 


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The 

Spanish  Gypsy 


By 

GEORGE  ELIOT 


This  work  was  first  written  in  the  winter  of  1864-65 ; 
after  a  visit  to  Spain  in  1867  it  was  rewritten  and  amplified. 
The  reader  conversant  with  Spanish  poetry  will  see  that  In 
two  of  the  Lyrics  an  attempt  has  been,  made  to  imitate  the 
trochaic  measure  and  assonance  of  the  Spanish  Ballad. 

May,    1868. 


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THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


BOOK  I . 

Tis  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her  lands 

Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep  : 

Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 

On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 

And  on  the  untravelled  Ocean's  restless  tides. 

This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 

And  gleaming  silvery  toward  the  northern  sky, 

Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus 

And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air, 

By  C6rdova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 

Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 

Of  Guadiana.     This  deep  mountain  gorge 

Slopes  widening  on  the  olive  plumed  plains 

Of  fair  Granada  :  one  far-stretching  arm 

Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 

Of  Alpujarras  where  the  new-bathed  Day 

With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 

Saddens  the  breast  of  northward-looking  snows 

That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars 

Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 

From  Almeria's  purple-shadowed  bay 

On  to  the  f  ar-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow — 

On  to  Alhambra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 

Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 

A  maimed  giant  in  his  agony. 

This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 

And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 

Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 

Is  rich  Bedmar  :  'twas  Moorish  long  ago, 

But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque^ 

And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 

The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 

('Tis  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish)— 

Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 


THE    SPANISH    GYP9T. 

On  all  the  many-titled  privilege 

Of  young  Duke  Silva.     No  Castilian  knight 

That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge  ; 

For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king, 

Not  Boabdil  the  waverer,  who   usurps 

A  throne  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 

The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 

Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 

In  Guadix'  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 

Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 

Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday, 

Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  Alcala, 

Wreathing  his  horse's  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier — such  high  trust 

Is  young  Duke  Silva's  :  and  the  time  is  great. 

(What  times  are  little  ?     To  the  sentinel 

That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 

The  fifteenth  century  since  the  Man  Divine 

Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 

Is  near  its  end — is  falling  as  a  husk 

Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  riped. 

The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 

In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 

Glares  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 

Along  the  Danube  and  the  Illyrian  shore 

Far  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks, 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they  watch, 

See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 

Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 

But  faith,  the  stronger  for  extremity, 

Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-off  tread 

Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 

The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 

And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 

Chased  from  their  revels  in  God's  sanctuary. 

So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 

To  the  high  dome,  the  Church's  firmament, 

Where  the  blue-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away, 

Reveals  the  throne  and  Him   who  sits  thereon. 

So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 

Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end  : 

Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 

And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart. 

The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 

Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors, 

The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 

That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 

Of  old  renown. 

No  more,  as  once  in  sunny  Avignon, 

The  poet -scholar  spreads  the  Homeric  page, 

And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song ; 

For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 

And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 

Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 

The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator, 

Immortallity  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 

In  spiritual  bodies,  winged  words 

Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 

Find  a  new  audience.     Forevermore, 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 

Of  Attila's  fierce  Huns,  the  soul  of  Greece 

Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.     The  maimed  form 

Of  calmly-joyous  beauty,  marble-limbed, 

Yet  breathing  with  the  thought  that  shaped  its  lips 

Looks  mild  reproach  from  out  its  opened  grave 

At  creeds  of  terror  ;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 

Fronts  the  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 

The  soul  of  man  is  widening  toward  the  past  : 

No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 

Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage — 

Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 

Praising  a  name  with  indolent  piety — 

He  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent, 

More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was. 

And  from  the  height  that  shows  where  morning  shone 

On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now, 

The  horizon  widens  round  him,  and  the  west 

Looks  vast  with  untracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 

Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 

That  like  the  sunken  sun  is  mirrored  still 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 

And  so  in  Cordova  through  patient  nights 

Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 

Between  the  setting  stars  *nd  finds  new  day  ; 

Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days, 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 
'  I  ask  but  for  a  million  maravedis  : 
Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 
New  shores,  new  realms,  new  soldiers  for  the  Cross* 
Son  cosas  grandest"     Thus  he  pleads  in  vain  ; 
Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew, 
Thinking,  "  God  means  it,  and  has  chosen  me." 
For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 
Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 
Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 
And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 
Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 
From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 
The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again, 
The  Turk  converted,  and  the  Holy  Church, 
Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 
Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 

The  modern  Cyrus  ?     Is  it  France  most  Christian, 

Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style 

Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 

For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come  ? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors  ? — 

Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb, 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  souls 

By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation's  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 

Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 

Trusted  the  God  within  their  Gothic  hearts 

At  Covadunga,  and  defied  Mahound  ; 

Beginning  so  the  Holy  War  of  Spain 

That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 

Of  labor  near  its  end.     The  silver  cross 

Glitters  o'er  Malaga  and  streams  dread  light 

On  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 

From  threats  to  gifts.     What  Spanish  knight  is  he 

Who,  living  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 

Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 

Which  needs  his  sword  ?     Castilian  gentlemen 

Choose  not  their  task — they  choose  to  do  it  well. 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man's  trust 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king. 
Wearing  great  honors  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o'er  with  names  'twere  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight, 
Count  of  Segura,  fourth  duke  of  Bedmdr, 
Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch  is  proud  Medina  Celi— 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 
Who  keeps  this  fortress,  its  sworn  governor, 
Lord  of  the  valley,  master  of  the  town, 
Commanding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  him  from  the  Cross 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads;— 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed, 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain  ; — 
By  the  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors  : — 
And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 

See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
He  winds  at  evening  through  the  narrow  streets 
That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious : 
His  charger,  of  fine  Andalusian  stock, 
An  Indian  beauty,  black  but  delicate, 
Is  conscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 
The  gathering  glances,  and  familiar  ways 
That  lead  fast  homeward  :  she  forgets  fatigue, 
And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master's  spur 
Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally, 
Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 
As  if  disdainful  of  the  difficult  steep. 
Night-black  the  charger,  black  the  rider's  plume, 
But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues — 
Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems, 
And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  vermilion, 
All  set  in  jasper  :  on  his  surcoat  white 
Glitter  the  sword-belt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Red  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross, 
And  'twixt  the  helmet  and  the  soft-spun  white 
Thick  tawny  wavelets  like  the  lion's  mane 
Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect, 
Shadowing  blue  eyes — blue  as  the  rain-washed  sky 
That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 
He  claims  for  ancestry.     A  goodly  knight, 


10  THE    SPANISH   GYPSY. 

A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 

And  long  of  limb.     So  much  the  August  sun, 

Now  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 

Past  a  dark  rocky  profile  toward  the  plain, 

At  windings  of  the  path  across  the  slope 

Makes  suddenly  luminous  for  all  who  see  : 

For  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 

For  boys  that  prone  on  trucks  with  head  up-propped 

Lazy  and  curious,  stare  irreverent  ; 

For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 

Of  good-will  shading  toward  servility, 

Where  good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins 

And  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth, 

Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shem. 

Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  make  odorous  shade, 
Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 
Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  and  help  the  wine. 
"Tis  Christian  to  drink  wine  :  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 
Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule, 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

MINE  HOST  is  one  :  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 

Soft-eyed,  fat-handed,  loving  men  for  nought 

But  his  own  humor,  patting  old  and  young 

Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 

With  confidential  blandness,  as  a  tax 

That  he  collected  much  against  his  will 

From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends  : 

Warranted  Christian — else  how  keep  an  inn, 

Which  calling  asks  true  faith  ?  though  like  his  wi«C 

Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 

His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 

As  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 

With  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 

Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet, 

And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies  ; 

Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  II 

'Twas  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base. 

Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon, 

Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Ephraim. 

Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 

To  feast  on  days  when  Israel's  children  mourned, 

So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 

To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Ephraim. 

And  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 

But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  moving  thing, 

Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 

From  the  dead  womb  and  walk  and  seek  new  pasture. 

Thus  baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 

Not  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 

Of  doing  homage  for  one's  property, 

And  all  religions  a  queer  human  whim 

Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees  : 

Ah,  'tis  a  whim  to  like  your  chestnuts  hot, 

Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 

A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them — animals 

Content  to  take  life  coolly.     And  Lorenzo 

Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 

Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 

Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews 

He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death  ; 

For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 

Till  all  men  loved  each  other.     Such  Mine  Host, 

With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 

The  solemn  mastiff  leaning  on  his  knee. 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog, 

Square-faced  and  massive  :  BLASCO  is  his  name, 

A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragon  : 

In  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuned  as  notes 

From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 

Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 

That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 

As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 

And  set  off  chiming  a  superfluous  tone  — 

Like  JUAN  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 

Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue, 

Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 

On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by-and-by, 

Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  were  loading, 

Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 

Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too  :  sees  a  wasp 

And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  flash  ; 

Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 

As  a  mere  hyphen  'twixt  two  syllables 

Of  any  steadier  man  ;  walks  up  and  down 

And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 

To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let  through  the  awning. 

Has  a  queer  face  :  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 

Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 

Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.     Thin-fingered,  lithe, 

And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 

Only  by  quickness.     In  his  speech  and  look 

A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 

Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world  ; 

Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 

About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  and  shared 

The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 

Undulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 

Of  men  and  women  on  the  festal  days, 

And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love's  pains, 

Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 

For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 

When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 

Spirits  seemed  buried  and  their  epitaph 

Is  writ  in  Latin  by  severest  pens, 

Yet  still  they  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 

And  find  new  bodies,  animating  them 

In  quaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 

So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  revived, 

Freshening  life's  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 

Of  wit  and  song,  living  'mid  harnessed  men 

With  limbs  ungalled  by  armor,  ready  so 

To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 

Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 

A*crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around, 

Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 

Defined  in  words  ;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 

To  grief  and  sadness  ;  hardly  taking  note 

Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others  ; 

By  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deep  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 

Of  universal  Nature,  old  yet  young. 

Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  shimmering  bright 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  I 

As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  RQLDAN  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

His  parti-colored  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Valencian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  fifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women  as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand  times  and  watched  to  count  the  pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.     His  olive  face 

Has  an  old  writing  in  it,  characters 

Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment, 

The  soul's  rude  mark  proclaiming  all  its  blank  ; 

As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 

In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 

On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  with  false  zest 

To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 

For  that  hard  industry  in  apishness. 

Roldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again  ; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox, 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 

Would  borrow  no  man's  jokes  forevermore. 

'Tis  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone, 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 

Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes, 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 

He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 

As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 

A  flute-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone, 

And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath, 

With  fine  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 

He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear, 

Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 

For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-year'd  boy 

To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease, 

But  for  the  gaze  of  some  primeval  sadness 

Dark  twin  with  light  in  the  creative  ray. 

This  little  PABLO  has  his  spangles  too, 

And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 

Rounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 

God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sine). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five —  besides  the 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSV. 

But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  with  wrinkled  face, 

Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 

Not  less  than  Roldan.     It  is  ANNIBAL, 

The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  tricks, 

Jumps  through  the  hoops  and  carries  round  the  hat. 

Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Now  cautious  not  to  light  on  aught  that's  new, 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o'er  again 

From  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh  : 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 

For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 

We  see  the  company,  above  their  heads 
The  braided  matting,  golden  as  ripe  corn, 
Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes, 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky  ; 
A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped, 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet, 
And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears, 
And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 
On  the  stone  floor  the  juggler's  heaped-up  goods, 
Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine, 
Where  Annibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 
A  serious  ape  whom  none  take  seriously, 
Obliged  in  this  fool's  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.     We  see  them  all, 
And  hear  their  talk  —  the  talk  of  Spanish  men, 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants, 
Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds, 
That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  descent—- 
And yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

JUAN  (near  the  doorway}. 

You  hear  the  trumpet  ?     There's  old  Ramon's  blast. 
No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 
He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 
As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead  ;  thinks  war 
Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 
Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 
His  features  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing, 
And  when  his  trumpet's  bagged  or  left  at  home 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  15 

He  seems  a    chattel  in  a  broker's  booth, 

A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 

No  sum  particular.     O  fine  old  Ramon  ! 

The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs  ; 

They  crack  the  ear  as  well  as  heaven's  thunder 

For  owls  that  listen  blinking.     There's  the  banner. 

HOST  {joining  him  :  the  others  follow  to  the  door}. 
The  Duke  has  finished  reconnoitering,  then  ? 
We  shall  hear  news.     They  say  he  means  a  sally — 
Would  strike  El  Zagal's  Moors  as  they  push  home 
Like  ants  with  booty  heavier  than  themselves  ; 
Then,  joined  by  other  nobles  with  their  bands, 
Lay  siege  to  Guadix.     Juan,  you're  a  bird 
That  nest  within  the  castle.     What  say  you  ? 

JUAN. 

Naught,  I  say  naught.    'Tis  but  a  toilsome  game 
To  bet  upon  that  feather  Policy, 
And  guess  where  after  twice  a  hundred  puffs 
'Twill  catch  another  feather  crossing  it  : 
Guess  how  the  Pope  will  blow  and  how  the  king ; 
What  force  my  lady's  fan  has  ;  how  a  cough 
Seizing  the  Padre's  throat  may  raise  a  gust, 
And  how  the  queen  may  sigh  the  feather  down. 
Such  catching  at  imaginary  threads, 
Such  spinning  twisted  air,  is  not  for  me. 
If  I  should  want  a  game,  I'll  rather  bet 
On  racing  snails,  two  large,  slow,  lingering  snails—- 
No spurring,  equal  weights — a  chance  sublime, 
Nothing  to  guess  at,  pure  uncertainty. 
Here  comes  the  Duke.     They  give  but  feeble  shouts. 
And  some  look  sour. 

HOST. 

That  spoils  a  fair  occasion. 
Civility  brings  no  conclusions  with  it, 
And  cheerful  Vivas  make  the  moments  glide 
Instead  of  grating  like  a  rusty  wheel. 

JUAN. 

O  they  are  dullards,  kick  because  they're  stung, 
And  bruise  a  friend  to  show  they  hate  a  wasp. 

HOST. 
Best  treat  your  wasp  with  delicate  regard  ; 


Ifi  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

When  the  right  moment  comes  say,  "  By  your  leave." 
Use  your  heel — so  !  and  make  an  end  of  him. 
That's  if  we  talked  of  wasps  ;  but  our  young  Duke- 
Spain  holds  not  a  more  gallant  gentleman. 
Live,  live,  Duke  Silva !     'Tis  a  rare  smile  he  has, 
But  seldom  seen. 

JUAN. 

A  true  hidalgo's  smile, 
That  gives  much  favor,  but  beseeches  none. 
His  smile  is  sweetened  by  his  gravity  : 
It  comes  like  dawn  upon  Sierra  snows, 
Seeming  more  generous  for  the  coldness  gone ; 
Breaks  from  the  calm — a  sudden  opening  flower 
On  dark  deep  waters  :  now  a  chalice  shut, 
A  mystic  shrine,  the  next  a  full-rayed  star, 
Thrilling,  pulse-quickening  as  a  living  word. 
I'll  make  a  song  of  that. 

HOST. 

Prithee,  not  now. 

You'll  fall  to  staring  like  a  wooden  saint, 
And  wag  your  head  as  it  were  set  on  wires. 
Here's  fresh  sherbet.     Sit,  be  good  company. 
( To  BLASCO)  You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  cannot  know 
How  our  Duke's  nature  suits  his  princely  frame. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  but  I  marked  his  spurs — chased  cunningly  t 

A  duke  should  know  good  gold  and  silver  plate  ; 

Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I've  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells  : 

He'll  need  such  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 

If  he  would  capture  any  Moorish  town. 

For  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed     • 

JUAN. 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 

And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 

Streaked  with  them  as  with  smoke.      Why,  they  are 

spirits  : 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 
To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  .      If 

BLASCO. 

I  knew  not  that. 

Still,  they're  of  smoky  nature,  demons  are  ; 
And  since  you  say  so — well  it  proves  the  more 
The  need  of  bells  and  censers.     Ay,  your  Duke 
Sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo.     I  can  judge — 
Of  harness  especially.     I  saw  the  camp, 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 
'Twas  like  the  court  of  heaven — such  liveries ! 
And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 
Before  the  nobles.     Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 
To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown, 
For  Don  Alonzo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 
Your  Duke's  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 
Or  harness  either.     But  you  seem  to  say 
The  people  love  him  not. 

HOST. 

They've  naught  against  him. 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men's  temper  bad. 
When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath, 
It  acts  upon  men's  knives  :  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel, 
Cutting  but  garlic.     There's  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind- 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that's  rather  hot 

HOST. 

With  fagots. 
JUAN. 

A  wind  that  suits  not  with  our  townsmen's  blood. 
Abram,  'tis  said,  objected  to  be  scorched, 
And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 
The  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmael. 
'Tis  true,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 

BLASCO. 

Their  oddities  ?    I'm  of  their  mind,  I  ktiow. 
Though,  as  to  Abraham  and  Ishmael 
I'm  an  old  Christian,  and  owe  naught  to  them 
Or  any  Jew  among  them.     But  I  know 


l8  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa — we  : 

The  men  of  Aragon  ring  hard — true  metal. 

Sirs,  I'm  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  then 

A  Christian's  money  is  not  safe.     As  how  ? 

A  lapsing  Jew  or  any  heretic 

May  owe  me  twenty  ounces  :  suddenly 

He's  prisoned,  suffers  penalties — 'tis  well 

If  men  will  not  believe,  'tis  good  to  make  them, 

But  let  the  penalties  fall  on  them  alone. 

The  Jew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate  ; 

Now,  where,  I  pray  you,  go  my  twenty  ounces? 

God  knows,  and  perhaps  the  King  may,  but  not  I. 

And  more,  my  son  may  lose  his  young  wife's  dower 

Because  'twas  promised  since  her  father's  soul 

Fell  to  wrong  thinking.     How  was  I  to  know  ? 

I  could  but  use  my  sense  and  cross  myself. 

Christian  is  Christian — I  give  in — but  still 

Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 

We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 

They  call  the — nonsense,  I'm  from  Aragon ! 

I  speak  too  bluntly.     But,  for  Holy  Church, 

No  man  believes  more. 

HOST. 

Nay,  sir,  never  fea*. 
Good  Master  Roldan  here  is  no  delator. 

ROLDAN  {starting  from  a  reverie). 
You  speak  to  me,  sirs  ?     I  perform  to-night—- 
The Plapa  Santiago.     Twenty  tricks, 
All  different.     I  dance,  too.     And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.     I  crave  your  patronage. 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.     In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 
You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now  ? 

ROLDAN. 

I?  no, 

I  pray  your  pardon.     I've  a  twinging  knee, 
That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.     You  were  saying  ? 

BLASCO. 
Nay,  it  was  nought  (Asidf  to  HOST)  Is  it  his  deepness  ? 


HOST. 
No. 

He's  deep  in  nothing  but  his  poverty. 

BLASCO. 
But  'twas  his  poverty  that  made  me  think— — 

HOST. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.     No  fear  ;  he  hears  not. 

BLASCO. 

Good. 

I  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 

But  look  you,  I'm  against  assassination. 

You  know  my  meaning — Master  Arbues, 

The  grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 

I  knew  naught — paid  no  copper  toward  the  deed. 

But  I  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 

How  could  I  help  it  ?  Why,  the  saints  were  there, 

And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.     I- 

JUAN. 
Looked  carefully  another  way. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  at  my  beads. 

'Twas  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.     I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.     I  saw  the  martyr  kneel ; 
I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive — 
He  was  no  martyr  then.     I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.     'Twas  in  our  great  Seo, 
At  Saragossa.     The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Death 
Should  hide  behind  their  dark,     ^nd  so  it  was. 
I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beads 
Unthinkingly  ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears  ; 
And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 
As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 
Of  some  great  torrent.     So  it  seemed  to  me ; 
For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 
Small  sounds  get  thunderous.     He  had  a  shelS 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Like  any  lobster  ;  a  good  iron  suit 

From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 

That  made  the  tell-tale  sound.     But  then  came  shrieks 

The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 

And  in  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbues, 

Felled  like  an  ox.     'Twas  wicked  butchery. 

Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 

The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 

'Twas  money  thrown  away — I  would  say,  crimer— 

Clean  thrown  away. 

HOST. 

That  was  a  pity  now 

Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 
Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man, 
Yet  ends  in  mischief — as  in  Aragon. 
It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 
Else  there's  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 
A  holy,  high-born,  stern  Dominican, 
They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kill. 

BLASCO. 

What  !  is  he  ? 

HOST. 

Yes  ;  a  Master  Arbue"s 
Of  finer  quality.     The  Prior  here 
And  uncle  to  our  Duke. 

BLASCO. 

He  will  want  plate  ; 
A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 
But,  did  you  say,  he  was  like  Arbue*s  ? 

JUAN. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 
Is  like  a  raven.     Even  in  his  cowl, 
Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 
From  all  the  black  herd  round.     When  he  uncovers 
And  stands  white-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 
Black-gleaming,  black  his  coronal  of  hair 
Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 
With  struggling  aims,  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 
Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay, 
That  human  flesh  he  breathes  in,  charged  with  passion 


THE    SPANISH   GYPSY.  21 

Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip, 
But  disciplined  by  long  in-dwelling  will 
To  silent  labor  in  the  yoke  of  law. 
A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo  ! 
Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  difference  ; 
'Tis  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

HOST. 

Pooh,  thou'rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 
May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 
No  pebble  is  a  pebble  in  thy  hands  : 
'Tis  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg, 
Or  twenty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 
Our  Father  Isidor's — a  living  saint, 
And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think  : 
Saints  should  be  dead,  according  to  the  Church. 
My  mind  is  this  :  the  Father  is  so  holy 
'Twere  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss. 
Easy  translation  to  the  realms  above, 
The  shoxtest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 
ts  what  I'd  never  grudge  him. 

BLASCO. 

Piously  said. 

Look  you,  I'm  dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there's  no  help  for  it  :  I  mean  to  say, 
When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.     But  there  be  bishops  now, 
And  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong. 
This  hurry  to  convert  the  Jews.     As  how? 
Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 
That's  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 
Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian's  purse. 
Convert  the  Jew,  and  where's  the  tribute,  pray  ? 
He  lapses,  too  :  'tis  slippery  work,  conversion  : 
And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  off 
His  money  at  one  sweep.     No  tribute  more  ! 
He's  penitent  or  burned,  and  there's  an  end. 
Now  guess  which  pleases  God 

JUAN. 

Whether  he  likes 
A  well-burned  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest— 
A  soldier :  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 
His  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek, 
His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor  ; 
With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  nought  to  do: 
Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly — no  tune, 
But  trotting  rhythm  :  meditative  eyes, 
Most  often  fixed  upon  his  legs  and  spurs: 
Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

LOPEZ. 

At  your  service,  sirs. 

JUAN. 

Ha,  Lopez  ?  Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.     What  news  of  the  wars  ? 

LOPEZ. 
Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

JUAN. 
Then  spit  it  forth. 

HOST. 

Sit,  Captain  :  here's  a  cup^ 
Fresh-filled.     What  news  ? 

LOPEZ. 

Tis  bad.     We  make  no  sally 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whate'er  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

HOST. 
Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 

LOPEZ. 

Glad,  will  they  be  ?     But  I'm  not  fclad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.     Therefore — meantime— 
He  will  be  married  straightway. 

HOST. 

Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hourglass  ;  turn  it  down 
The  other  way,  'twill  stand  as  well,  and  say 


THE   SP.-NiSH   GYPSY.  3 

The  Duke  will  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  says  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior  ? 
The  hody  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don  ? 

LOPEZ. 

0  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 

As  thick  as  nuts  o'erturned.     No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say,  'twas  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent : 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.     From  Rome,  says  Quintal. 
From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 
Some  say  'tis  all  a  pretext — say,  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt, 
Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk  : 
Twas  Don  Diego  said  that — so  says  Bias  ; 
Last  week,  he  said 

JUAN. 

O  do  without  the  "  said  !  * 
Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 

1  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  self-same  spot 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

LOPEZ. 

Santiago  !  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  sir,  speak  on  ! 

I  like  your  matter  well.  I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.  Who  is  the  bride  ? 

LOPEZ. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 
One  that  his  mother  reared — God  rest  her  soul  !— 
Duchess  Diana — she  who  died  last  year. 
A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 
Her  name — the  Duchess  gave  it — is  Fedalma. 
No  harm  in  that     But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 
In  wedding  her.     And  that's  the  simple  truth. 

JUAN. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion  : 
The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 


S4  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 
Fie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves  ! 
He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonors  her. 

LOPEZ. 
Nay,  I  said  naught  against  her. 

JUAN. 

Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  with  wits, 
And  spear  thee  through  and  through  ere  thou  couldst 

draw 

The  bluntest  word.     Yes,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs  : 
Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 
Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  loyal  tune  : 
He  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 
Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma,     He  enshrines 
Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  awe 
And  for  his  own — will  guard  her  from  the  world, 
Nay,  his  profaner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 
The  place  of  his  religion.     He  does  well. 
Nought  can  come  closer  to  the  poet's  strain. 

HOST. 

Or  farther  from  his  practice,  Juan,  eh  ? 
If  thou'rt  a  sample  ? 

JUAN. 

Wrong  there,  my  Lorenzo  f 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

LOPEZ. 

By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  ?     Thou  meanest  that  ? 

JUAN. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 
Growing  descriptive  ;  'tis  unnatural, 
I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward. 
Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come  ;  but  the  poor  poet 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  3 

Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 
A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.     He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 
Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because  'tis  lovingness,  as  beggars  joy, 
Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 
To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 
There's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 
And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.     Digest  that,  friend, 
Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

LOPEZ. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her  ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 
'Tis  Father  Marcos  says  she'll  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water  ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel ;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

JUAN. 

Tush! 

[Now  Juan — who  by  snatches  touched  his  lute 

With  soft  arpeggio,  like  a  whispered  dream 

Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love — 

In  jesting  anger  at  the  soldier's  talk 

Thrummed  loud  and  fast,  then  faster  and  more  loud, 

Till,  as  he  answered  "  Tush  !  "  he  struck  a  chord 

Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez*  ear. 

Mine  host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 

Roldan  looked  up  and  Annibal  looked  down, 

Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case  : 

The  boy  raised  longing,  listening  eyes  that  seemed 

An  exiled  spirit's  waiting  in  strained  hope 

Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 

But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock  : 

That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at — he ! 

He  spoke  with  neck  erect  ] 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

LOPEZ. 

If  that's  a  hint 

The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song, 
Sing,  then  ! 

HOST. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 

Something  brand  new.     Thou'rt  wont  to  make  my  esi 
A  test  of  novelties.     Hast  thou  aught  fresh  ? 

JUAN. 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.     Here's  a  Cancion 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest's  foul  scandal  of  Fedalma. 

[He  preluded  with  querying  intervals, 
Rising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 
In  minor  cadence — sound  with  poised  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  toward  the  needed  fall. 
Then  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song : 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  I 

Say,  O  Song  ! 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  I 

Dark  the  night  with  breath  all  flow 'rs, 
And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 
With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 
Whisperings,  wooings, 
Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 
In  low -toned  rhythm  that  love's  aching  stills. 
Dark  the  night, 
Yet  is  sfte  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star. 
Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  lovet 
from  some  unknown  afar, 
O  radiant  dark  !     O  darkly -fostered  ray  / 
Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 

While  Juan  sang,  all  round  the  tavern  court 

Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Fat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 

With  arms  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 

(Who  built,  'tis  knowr>,  the  mightiest  Spanish  towns); 

Thin  Alda's  face,  sad  as  a  washed  passion. 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  2 

Leaned  o'er  the  nodding  baby's  ;  'twixt  the  rails 

The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads, 

His  flat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose, 

Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow  ; 

Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 

The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo's  wife 

All  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 

By  little  clutches,  woman's  coquetry 

Quite  turned  to  mother's  cares  and  sweet  content. 

These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 

Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  lazy-shouldered  men. 

'Tis  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped, 

Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 

The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 

To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small, 

The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 

Held  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 

Then,  when  mine  host  desired  the  strain  once  more, 

He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 

Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 

That  fall  from  off  the  eaves  in  fancy  dance 

When  clouds  are  breaking  ;  till  at  measured  pause 

He  struck  with  strength,  in  rare  responsive  chord*.] 

HOST. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  ballad,  if  thou  wilt : 

I  quarrel  not  with  change.     What  say  you,  Captain  ? 

LOPEZ. 

All's  one  to  me.     I  note  no  change  of  tune, 
Not  I,  save  in  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs, 
Or  in  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.     I  ne'er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  it  passes  time- 
Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise  :  that's  good 
For,  look  you,  fools  are  merry  here  below, 
Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same, 
Having  the  sacraments ;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men, 
Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.     And  GO,  in  travelling, 


jg  THE     SPANISH    GYPSY. 

I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
And  take  fools'  pleasures 

HOST. 

Hark,  the  Long  begins ! 

JUAN  (sings). 

Maiden,  crowned  with  glossy  blackness^ 
Lithe  as  panther  forest-roaming, 

Long-armed  naiad,  when  she  dances, 
On  a  stream  of  ether  floating — 

Bright,  O  bright  Fedalma  I 

form  all  curves  like  softness  drifted, 
Wave-kissed  marble  roundly  dimpling^ 

Far-off  music  slowly  winged, 
Gently  rising,  gently  sinking — 

Bright,  O  bright  Fedalmal 

Pure  as  rain-tear  on  a  rose-leaf, 
Cloud  high-born  in  noonday  spotless^ 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dew-bead, 
Gem  of  earth  and  sky  begotten — 

Bright,  O  bright  Fedalmal 

Beauty  has  no  mortal  father, 
Holy  light  her  form  engendered 

Out  of  tremor,  yearning,  gladness, 
Presage  sweet  and  joy  remembered— 
Child  of  Light,  Fedalma  / 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  sung  to  a  stirring  tune, 
I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round  ; 
It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.     Another  such ! 

ROLDAN  (rising). 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  my  boy.     'Tis  very  hard 
When  gentles  sing  for  naught  to  all  the  town. 
How  can  a  poor  man  live?     And  now  'tis  time 
I  go  to  the  Pla(pa — who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  nought? 

JUAN. 

True,  friend.     Be  pacified.     I'll  sing  no  more. 
Go  thou,  and  we  wil)  follow.     Never  fear. 


THE  sp/.i::3:.  GYPSY.          .  29 

My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy-leaves, 

Plucked  in  all  seasons — bears  no  price ;  tny  coy's 

Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.     Ah,  he's  lame  ! 

HOST. 

Load  him  not  heavily.     Here,  Pedro  !  help. 
Go  with  them  to  the  Plafa,  take  the  hoops. 
The  sights  will  pay  thee. 

BLASCO. 

I'll  be  there  anon, 

And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 

HOST. 

Ay,  prithee, 
Some  tricks,  a  dance. 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  'tis  more  rational 

ROLDAN  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  monkey  on  kit 

shoulders). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.     There's  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.     I've  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 
But  no  man's  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Annibal, 

Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery, 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.     From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds, 

Coaxings  and  trampings,  and  the  small  hoarse  squeak 

Of  Pepe's  reed.     And  our  group  talked  again.] 

HOST. 

I'll  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  him  well, 
An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 
For  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 
'Tis  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 
What  though  the  best  be  bad  ?  remains  the  good 
Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 
I'd  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 
To  see  a  miserable  jurgler  pleased. 


30  Tilli     SPANISH     GYPSY, 

But  that's  my  humor.     Crowds  are  malcontent 

And  cruel  as  the  Holy shall  we  go  f 

All  of  us  now  together  ? 

LOPEZ. 

Well,  not  I. 

I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.     There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Be  lodged  within  the  fort.     They've  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets — used  up  all  the  metal 
At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.     "Tis  a  fine  stalwart  band, 
Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.     Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  gypsies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  'twere  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They'd  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  say — but  I  must  go.     'Twill  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.     We  shall  meet  again. 

BLASCO. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  (exit  Lopez).     A  very  proper  man, 
And  soldierly.     But,  for  this  banishment 
Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  pleases  me. 
The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 
Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not ; 
We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon) — 
Jews  are  not  fit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 
They  are  most  useful.     'Tis  the  same  with  mules, 
Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 
Except  St.  Anthony's.     They  are  useful  here 
(The  Jews,  I  mean)  though  they  may  go  to  hell. 
And,  look  you,  useful  sins — why  Providence 
Sends  Jews  to  do  'em,  saving  Christian  souls. 
The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 
Would  make  draft  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 
Cost  less  than  grazing  brutes,  and  turn  bad  food 
To  handsome  carcasses  ;  sweat  at  the  forge 
For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 
Might  work  like  slaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  oa. 
I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 
What  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means    plain  sense; 
But  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wande~ing 
In  punishment  became  they  sintered  r»™ 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Our  Lady  and  St.  Joseph  (and  no  doubt 
Stole  the  small  ass  they  fled  with  into  Egypt), 
Why  send  them  here  ?     Tis  plain  he  saw  the  use 
They'd  be  to  Spaniards.     Shall  we  banish  them, 
And  tell  God  we  know  better  ?     'Tis  a  sin. 
They  talk  of  vermin  ;  but,  sirs  ;  vermin  large 
Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 
The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gypsy  men 
Might  serve  in  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall 
To  make  an  easy  ladder.     Once  I  saw 
A  Gypsy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp 
Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him  :  talk  of  strength ! 
Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 
He  vanished  like — say,  like 

JUAN. 

A  swift  black  snake, 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

BLASCO. 
Why,  did  you  see  him,  pray  ? 

JUAN. 

Not  then,  but  now, 
As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 
We  have  a  Gypsy  in  Bedmar  whose  frame 
Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 
'Twould  yield  a  dozen  types  :  all  Spanish  knights, 
From  him  who  slew  Rolando  at  the  pass 
Up  to  the  mighty  Cid  ;  all  deities, 
Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes : 
Or  all  hell's  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 
Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

HOST. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan — more  hyperbole  ! 
Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fact 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shooting  suits  not  me, 
I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 
What  is  this  Gypsy  ? 

HOST. 

Chieftain  of  a  band, 
The  Moor's  allies,  whom  full  a  month  ago 


J2  THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Our  Duke  surprised  and  brought  us  captives  home. 

He  needed  smiths,  and  doubtless  the  brave  Moor 

Has  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too, 

Juan's  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 

These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 

With  this  great  chief,  whom  he  transforms  at  will 

To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  sun 

Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy, 

Turns  sand  to  gold  and  dewy  spider-webs 

To  myriad  rainbows.     Still  the  sand  is  sand, 

And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 

'Tis  so,  I'll  wager,  with  this  Gypsy  chief — 

A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  more. 

JUAN. 

No  !     My  invention  has  been  all  too  poor 
To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  first. 
'Twas  when  they  stripped  him.     In  his  chieftain's  gear, 
Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb 
Followed  by  wild-maned  Andalusian  colts. 
He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 
In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship, 
But  delicate  as  Moorish,  fit  to  kiss 
Fedalma's  neck,  and  play  in  shadows  there. 
He  wore  fine  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 
And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 
A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 
But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornamentsj 
It  was  the  baubles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 
His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 
With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn, 
With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 
To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey — 
It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 
And  made  them  grand.     The  baubles  were  well  gone* 
He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

BLASCO. 

Maybe.     But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade. 

And  is  not  decent.     Well-wrought  metal,  sir, 

Is  not  a  bauble.     Had  you  seen  the  camp, 

The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 

Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  other  dukes, 

The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  JJ 

For  body-guard,  'twould  not  have  left  you  breath 
To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.     A  man's  a  man  ; 
But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work! 
Of  many  thousand  men.     King  Ferdinand 
Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs  ; 
But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic  ? 
You'd  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o'er, 
And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 
And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 
Doing  him  reverence.     That  strikes  an  awe 
Into  a  common  man — especially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

HOST. 

Faith,  very  wisely  said. 
Purge  thy  speech,  Juan.     It  is  over-full 
Of  this  same  Gypsy.     Praise  the  Catholic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler's  skill 

The  Plafa  Santiago 

'Tis  daylight  still,  but  now  the  golden  cross 
Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  the  dome 
Stands  rayless  in  calm  color  clear-defined 
Against  the  northern  blue  ;  from  turrets  high 
The  flitting  splendor  sinks  with  folded  wing 
Dark-hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 
Wear  soft  relenting  whiteness  mellowed  o'er 
By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 
Now  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil 
And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 
The  old  rain-fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 
Of  shadow-broken  gray  ;  the  rounded  hills 
Reddened  with  the  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  lirab^ 
Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh 
Of  cactus  green  and  blue  broad-sworded  aloes  J 
The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 
Of  white  court-walls  ;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 
Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 
In  the  warm  quiet : — all  thought-teaching  form 
Utters  itself  in  firm  unshimmering  hues. 
For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 
That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 
Among  the  branches  ;  and  within  Bedmdr 
Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 


34  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

When  color  glows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 

Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The  ripe-cheeked  fruits,  the  crimson-petalled  flowers ; 

The  winged  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 

Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf  ; 

The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 

To  difference  fine  as  bf  a  voice  'mid  sounds: — 

Each  lovely  light-dipped  thing  seems  to  emerge 

Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 

All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 

Lies  still,  yet  conscious,  with  clear  open  eyes 

And  gentle  breath  and  mild  suffused  joy. 

'Tis  day,  but  day  that  falls  like  melody" 

Repeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones — 

Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  long  farewell. 

The  Pla9a  widens  in  the  passive  air — 

The  Placa  Santiago,  where  the  church, 

A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 

Red-checkered,  faded,  doing  penance  still — 

Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imaged  saint, 

Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior, 

Whose  charger's  hoofs  trample  the  turbaned  dead, 

Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword 

Flashes  athwart  the  Moslem's  glazing  eye, 

And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Placa  gently  slopes, 

In  shape  most  like  the  pious  palmer's-  shell, 

Girdled  with  low  white  houses  ;  high  above 

Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  wall 

And  well-flanked  castle  gate.     From  o'er  the  roofs, 

And  from  the  shadowed  patios  cool,  there  spreads 

The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 

Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite — 

A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment, 

That  curves  the  lip  more  softly,  fills  the  eye 

With  more  indulgent  beam.     And  so  it  soothes, 

So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 

Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 

Chosen  by  Roldan  for  his  theatre. 

Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark, 

Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full ; 

Men  shoulder  little  girls  ;  and  grandames  gray, 


THE    SPANISH   GYPSY. 

But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms ; 
While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 
Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 
The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 
Youths  keep  the  places  for  themselves,  and  roll 
Large  lazy  eyes,  and  call  recumbent  dogs 
(For  reasons  deep  below  the  reach  of  thought). 
The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  hint 
Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery, 
Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 
In  observation.     None  are  quarrelsome. 
Noisy,  or  very  merry  ;  for  their  blood 
Moves  slowly  into  fervor — they  rejoice 
Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing, 
Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 

In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 

Of  eye  and  muscle  ;  all  the  juggler's  form 

Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 

Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 

With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 

Round  a  fixed  point ;  'tis  not  the  old  Roldan  now, 

The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 

The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  appetite 

And  memory  of  desire  ;  'tis  wondrous  force 

That  moves  in  combination  multiform 

Toward  conscious  ends  :  'tis  Roldan  glorious, 

Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor, 

King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 

Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part, 

Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down, 

Dancing  and  throwing  nought  and  catching  it, 

With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 

Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus, 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart, 
Holding  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 
Music  must  not  be  wasted,  but  must  rise 
As  needed  climax  ;  and  the  audience 
Is  growing  with  late  comers.     Juan  now, 
And  the  familiar  host,  with  Blasco  broad, 
Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 
Studded  with  heads.     Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 
Into  one  family  by  showing  all 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Good-will  and  recognition.     Juan  casts 
His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around  ; 
But — with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 
Shaking  a  flame — his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 
Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 
Castle-ward  leading,  stands  a  female  form, 
A  kerchief  pale  square-drooping  o'er  the  brow, 
About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge — in  garb 
Most  like  a  peasant  woman  from  the  vale, 
Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 
To  see  the  show.     What  thrill  mysterious, 
Ray-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 
The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan's  glance 
Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 
Diverts  it  lastingly  ?     He  turns  at  once 
To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 
At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 
In  all  Bedmar — Pepita,  fair  yet  necked, 
Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 
As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow—- 
Who stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet, 
And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 
Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 
But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play 
And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops, 
That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 
In  the  swift  circle.     Shuddering  he  leaps, 
But  with  each  spring  flies  swift  and  swifter  still 
To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 
Are  changed  to  smaller.     Now  the  crowd  is  fired. 
The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged, 
The  imminent  failure  and  repeated  scape 
Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 
With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixed. 
'Tis  all  about  a  monkf  y  leaping  hard 
Till  near  to  gasping  ;  but  it  serves  as  well 
As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 
Where  these  are  lacking.     Roldan  cautiously 
Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 
And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 
And  backward  stagger — pity,  he  could  not  smile! 

Now  Roldan  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 
Strange  metamorphoses  :  the  pebble  black 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  37 

Changes  to  whitest  egg  within  his  hand; 

A  staring  rabbit,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  tells  men's  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 

Their  secret  choosings  ;  makes  the  white  beans  pass 

With  causeless  act  sublime  from  cup  to  cup 

Turned  empty  on  the  ground — diablerie 

That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys : 

These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 

Roldan's  great  mastery.     He  tumbles  next, 

And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat 

With  arduous  comicality  and  save 

By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 

(And  Roldan's  body)  from  too  serious  strain. 

But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow — 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman's  heart 

From  out  the  strings,  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn,  plead, 

Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 

Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 

To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mix 

Alternate  with  the  bow's  keen  biting  tones 

The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger's  touch, 

Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 

From  an  old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan ; 

The  other  half  was  rather  heritage 

From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 

In  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 

The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick-pressed  crowd 

With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 

The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 

With  dimly  widened  consciousness  :  as  waves 

In  heightened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  off. 

And  the  light  changes  ;  westward  stationed  clouds, 

The  sun's  ranged  outposts,  luminous  message  spread, 

Rousing  quiescent  things  to  doff  their  shade 

And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 

Now  Pablo,  letting  fail  the  eager  bow, 

Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings, 

And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 

(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love's  arrows ; 


THE    SPANISH    GYPOY. 

And  clear  upon  clerj  air  as  colored  gems 
Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure, 
Fall  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical : 

Spring  comes  hither ', 

Buds  the  rose  ; 
Roses  wither, 

Sweet  spring  goes. 
Ojala,  would  she  carry  me  / 

Summer  soars — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 

Flies  away. 
Ojala,  would  he  carry  me  / 

Soft  winds  blow, 

Westward  born, 
Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 
Ojala,  would  they  carry  me  t 

Sweet  birds  sing 

O'er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 

O'er  the  waves. 
Ojala,  would  they  carry  me  ! 

When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  viol's  note 
To  plead  forsaken,  'twas  as  when  a  cloud 
Hiding  the  sun,  makes  all  the  leaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.     But  when  with  measured  change  the  strings 
Had  taught  regret  new  longing,  clear  again, 
Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice. 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leave* 

Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound, 

Whispering  of  a  secret  found 
In  the  clear  sunshine  'mid  the  golden  sheaves  : 
Said  it  was  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn, 

Called  it  gladness,  called  it  joy, 

Drew  me  on — "  Come  hither,  boy  " — 
To  where  the  blue  wings  rested  on  the  corn. 
I  thought  the  gentle  som:d  had  ivhispered 

Thought  the  little  heaven  mine, 

Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine^ 
And  saw  ike  blue  wings  ?K*:li  within  the  blut. 


THE   CPANISH    GYPSY.  39 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 
With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 
The  myriad  corridors  of  the  passionate  soul, 
Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 
Not  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chilly  limbs 
In  hoary  northern  mists,  but  action  curved 
To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 
Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs  : 
Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime, 
And  move  in  memory  ;  small  legs  and  arms 
With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 
Go  up  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 
All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 
Yet  wait  for  it  ;  as  in  the  olden  time 
Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 
"The  dance  !  the  dance  !  "  is  shouted  all  around. 
Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 
Ready  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 
When  Juan  nods  and  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 
And  lifts  her  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 
Juan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 
And  bends  to  quit  his  lute  ;  for  now  the  scene 
Is  empty  ;  Roldan  weary,  gathers  pence, 
Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse  and  stick. 
The  carpet  lies  a  colored  isle  untrod, 
Inviting  feet  :  "  The  dance,  the  dance,"  resounds, 
The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain, 
And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 

That  through  dim  vapor  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron-robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 

With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head, 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 

Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

Juan  stood  fixed  and  pale  ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  within  the  ring  :  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 
"  Lady  Fedalma  ! — will  she  dance  for  us  ?  ** 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  impulse  passionate. 
Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

The  warming  quickening  light  that  music  makes,, 

Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 

When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice 

And  led  the  chorus  of  the  people's  joy  ; 

Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 

Watching  the  sorrow-crowned  Hecuba  : 

Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous,  gradual, 

Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 

In  Eden's  natural  taintless  marriage  bond  ; 

Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 

With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 

And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 

Knowing  not  comment — soilless,  beautiful. 

The  spirit  in  her  gravely  glowing  face 

With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 

Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 

Of  virgin  majesty  ;  as  full  vowelled  words 

Are  new  impregnate  with  the  master's  thought. 

Even  the  chance-strayed  delicate  tendrils  black, 

That  backward  'scape  from  out  her  wreathing  hai 

Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 

When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altern 

She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again — 

Gather  expression — a  soft  undertone 

And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 

Of  her  harmoniously  bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 

The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd  : 

They  hold  their  breath,  and  live  by  seeing  her. 

But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief — 

Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low, 

And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  eared  corn 

Or  seed-bent  grasses,  when  the  ocean's  breath 

Spreads  landward.     Even  Juan  is  impelled 

By  the  swift-travelling  movement  :  fear  and  doubt 

Give  way  before  the  hurrying  energy  ; 

He  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship, 

Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 

Raised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 

By  Pablo's  voice,  that  dies  away  too  soon, 

Like  the  sweet  blackbird's  fragmentary  chant, 

Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall, 

In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 


THE  SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Prompting  brief  utterance — little  cancions 
And  villancicos,  Andalusia-born. 

PABLO  (sings). 

It  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  Spring-time. 

In  the  linnefs  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love  stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 

Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  but  a  minute 
In  a  far-off  Spring, 
But  each  gentle  thing, 
Sweetly-wooing  linnet, 
Soft-thrilled  hawthorn  tree, 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self, 
Live  still  on  in  me, 
O  the  swe;t,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 

And  still  the  light  is  changing  :  high  above 
Float  soft  pink  clouds  ;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingos  bending  toward  the  south. 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o'er  the  sky 
A  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air — 
The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 
And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo's  notes  subside, 
Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphony. 
JUAN  (sings'). 

Day  is  dying  I  Float,  O  song, 
Down  the  westward  river, 

Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day — 
Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  y 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting  : 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  SWOM^ 

'  Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flow' r 

Inly  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure— 
Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     float,  O  swant 

.Down  the  ruby  river  ; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

The  strains  more  plenteous,  and  the  gathering  might 

Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 

But  self's  poor  gates  open  Crushing  power 

That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and  outward  vast — 

All  gathering  influences  culminate 

And  urge  Fedalma.     Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 

Life  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  unknown  rapture.     Swifter  now  she  moves, 

Filling  the  measure  with  a  double  beat 

And  widening  circle  ;  now  she  seems  to  glow 

With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 

Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 

The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine, 

And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher 

Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous  ;  now  the  crowd 

Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 

In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exultant  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart; 
Something  approaches — something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers — startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.     Tis  the  band 
Of  Gypsy  prisoners.     Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 
The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  oae, 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  43 

That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair ; 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight  ;  and  now  they  stretch 
Right  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 
Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Returning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 
Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 

The  unlifted  tambourine 

When  lo  !  with  sound 
Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead, 
Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
For  souls  departed  :  at  the  mighty  beat 
It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck — 'tis  the  note 
Of  the  sun's  burial  ;  speech  and  action  pause  ; 
Religious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 
Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 
Of  death  that  turned  to  more  diffusive  life) 
Pass  o'er  the  Playa.     Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god  ; 
And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.     Not  all. 
The  soldiers  pray  ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 
As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  gaze. 
But  he  who  wears  a  solitary  chain 
Heading  the  file,  has  turned  to  face  Fedalma. 
She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted  guards 
The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 
Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 
Reveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stands 
With  level  glance  meeting  the  Gypsy's  eyes, 
That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 
Rebuking  her,  the  great  bell's  hidden  thought 
Now  first  unveiled — the  sorrows  unredeemed 
Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 
Why  does  he  look  at  her  ?  why  she  at  him  ? 
As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 
Made  permanent  union  ?     His  deep-knit  brow, 
Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 
Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 
Written  before  her.     Father  Isidor 
Had  terrible  eyes  and  was  her  enemy  ; 
She  knew  it  and  defied  him  ;  all  her  soul 
Rounded  and  hardened  in  its  separateness 
When  they  encountered.     But  this  prisoner— 


44  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Thi*  Gjrpsy,  passing,  gazing  casually — 

Was  he  her  enemy  too  ?     She  stood  all  quelled. 

The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  in  her  veins 

Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 

Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 

The  minute  brief  stretched  measureless,  dream-filled 

By  a  dilated  new-fraught  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone  ;  the  pious  murmur  ceased, 
The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 
And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 
But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 
Waited  for  Pablo's  music,  many  eyes 
Turned  toward  the  carpet  :  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 
Twilight  was  there — the  bright  Fedalma  gone, 

d  handsome  room  in   the  Castle.     On  a  table  a  rich 
casket. 

Silva  had  doffed  his  mail  and  with  it  all 

The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 

He  had  not  seen  Fedalma  ;  miser-like 

He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 

By  longing  oft-repressed.     Now  it  was  earned  ; 

And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 

To  ask  admission.     Spanish  gentlemen 

Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 

Did  homage  with  rich  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 

And  outward-surging  linen's  costly  snow  ; 

With  broidered  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 

Handsomely  wrought  to  fit  high-blooded  prayer; 

So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 

That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady's  feet. 

And  Silva — that  Fedalma's  rate  should  stand 

No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 

Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was — 

Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 

To  scrupulous  language,  uttering  to  the  world 

That  since  she  loved  him,  he  went  carefully, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 

In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 

That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion  : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  imagination's  airy  needs  : — 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  45 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o'er  with  eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man  ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  nought 

A  nature  half -transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate  ; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt  ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  string 

Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 

Right  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.     A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery  : 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously  :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.     In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.     Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave, 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree  ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveringly  poised 

In  reach  of  storms,  whose  qualities  may  turn 

To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 

Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remorse  ; 

Or,  as  a  lover In  the  screening  time 

Of  purple  blossoms,  when  the  petals  crowd 
And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven, 
Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms  ? 
O  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous  ! 
And  in  love's  spring  all  good  seems  possible  : 
No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 


46  THE    SPANISH    GYFSY. 

And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 
Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 
And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 
As  childhood's  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow, 
And  earth  seems  in  its  sweet  beginning  time 
Fresh  made  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 
Silva  is  in  love's  spring,  its  freshness  breathed 
Within  his  soul  along  the  dusty  ways 
While  marching  homeward  ;  'tis  around  him  now 
As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight, — 
And  he  may  seek  delight.     Smiling  he  lifts 
A  whistle  from  his  belt,  but  lets  it  fall 
Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 
Of  usher's  knocking,  and  a  voice  that  craves 
Admission  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo. 

PRIOR  (entering). 

You  look  perturbed,  my  son.     I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  than  my  own. 

DON   SILVA. 

Father,  enough  that  you  are  here.     I  wait, 
As  always,  your  commands — nay,  should  have  sought 
An  early  audience. 

PRIOR. 

To  give,  I  trust, 
Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
Strong  reasons,  father. 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  but  are  they  good  ? 
I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  eviL 

DON  SILVA. 

*Tis  possible.     I  but  deliver  mine 
To  your  strict  judgment.     Late  dispatches  sent 
With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 
No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 
The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 
And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 
The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational, 
Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 


THE    SPANISH    GYPS':',  47 

The  siege  of  Guadix  would  be  madness.     More, 

El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedmar: 

Let  him  attempt  it :  in  three  weeks  from  hence 

The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 

Will  bring  their  forces.     We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 

The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.     You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

PRIOR. 

And  they  sound  well.     But  free-tongued  rumor  adds 

A  pregnant  supplement — in  substance  this  : 

This  inclination  snatches  arguments 

To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice  ; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God's  Holy  War, 

Lift  prayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 

And  give  you  time  for  feasting — wait  a  siege, 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible, 

Because  you'd  marry  !     You,  a  Spanish  duke, 

Christ's  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 

Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war, 

Is  all  the  merrier  ;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 

Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite, 

Coupling  'mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 

The  battle  rages. 

DON  SILVA. 

Rumor  on  your  lips 
Is  eloquent,  father. 

PRIOR. 
Is  she  true  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Perhaps. 

I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 
And  not  my  private  joy.     Before  the  world 
Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command, 
Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to  :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

PRIOR. 

Knightly  vows/ 
Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry  ? 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

DON  SILVA. 
Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.     I  use 

A  sanctioned  liberty your  pardon,  father, 

I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decree* 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.     The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order's  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

PRIOR. 

Ignoble  liberty  !  you  snatch  your  rule 
From  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  He  loves? 
Enquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suffice, 
Cheapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus, 
Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 
For  your  debauch  ? — Measure  obedience 
By  scantest  powers  of  brethren  whose  frail  flesh 
Our  Holy  Church  indulges  ? — ask  great  Law, 
The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul, 
For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands  ? 

0  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows, 
Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself ! 

Such  poor  apology  of  rule  relaxed 
Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 
Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  for  the  resl* 

Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies, 
Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 
Nor  needs  to  question  Rumor  if  we  fall 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thought 

1  fear  no  outward  arbiter. — You  smile  ? 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  'twixt  your  portraiture 
And  the  true  image  of  your  conscience,  shown 
As  now  I  see  it  in  your  acts.     I  see 
A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 
At  his  own  shadow,  but  when  sealers  snatch 
His  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 
At  games  he's  dreaming  of. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  parable  ! 
The  husk  is  rough — holds  something  bitter,  doubtless. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  49 

PRIOR. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 
You  boast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armor,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery — you,  helpless  slave, 
Whose  will  lies  nerveless  in  the  clutch  of  lust — 
Of  blind  mad  passion — passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  like  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 
O  famous  conscience  ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Pause  there  !  Leave  unsaid 

Aught  that  will  match  that  text.     More  were  too  muci^ 
Even  from  holy  lips.     I  own  no  love 
But  such  as  guards  my  honor,  since  it  guards 
Hers  whom  I  love  !     I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  I  lay  before  her  feet ; 
And,  being  hers,  my  honor  is  more  safe. 

PRIOR. 

Versemakers'  talk  !  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 
Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears, 
Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 
And  end  in  amity — a  world  of  lies — 
A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 
Stale  falsehoods  serve  fresh  men.     Yourjhonor  safe? 
What  honor  has  a  man  with  double  bonds  ? 
Honor  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 
To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 
A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel 

DON  SILVA  (fiercely). 
An  infidel  ! 

PRIOR. 

May  one  day  spurn  the  Cross, 
And  call  that  honor  ! — one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained  with  his  brother's  blood,  and  call  that  honor  '. 
Apostates'  honor  ? — harlots'  chastity  ! 
Renegades'  faithfulness  ? — Iscariot's  ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Strong  words  and  burning  ;  but  they  scorch  not  me. 
Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church — 
Has  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 


50  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fedalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 

PRIOR. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized,  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

DON  SILVA  (scornfully). 
Holy  accusers  practice  palmistry, 
And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skin. 

PRIOR. 

I  read  a  deeper  record  than  the  skin. 
What  !     Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 
Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 
That  moves  within  our  frame  like  God  in  worlds-— 
Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering — 
Imprint  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 
Of  her  great  history  ?     Shall  men  bequeath 
The  fancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons, 
And  shall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe, 
The  slow-wept  tears  of  contrite  memory. 
Faith's  prayerful  labor,  and  the  food  divine 
Of  fasts  ecstatic — shall  these  pass  away 
Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly  ? 
Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain, 
And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 
Of  tremors  reverent  ?     That  maiden's  blood 
Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard's. 

DON  SILVA. 

Say, 

Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,  "All  hail!*' 

PRIOR  (smiling  bitterly}. 
Said  I  not  truly  ?    See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies ! 


THE  SPAN?:::-:  GYPSY,  51 

DON  SILVA. 
'Tis  you  provoke  them. 

PRIOR. 

I  strive,  as  still  the  Holy  Spirit  strives, 
To  move  the  will  perverse.     But,  failing  this, 
God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 
To  save  Castilian  glory — nay,  to  save 
The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

DON  SILVA. 

Of  traitorous  deeds  !     Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowlj 
Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 
As  for  your  threats,  fulfill  them  at  your  peril. 
Tis  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 
To  rot  in  infamy.     If  I  am  strong 
In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 
Then  in  defiance. 

PRIOR. 

Miserable  man  ! 

Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.     Can  you  change  your  blood  ? 
You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.     A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people's  faith. 
Strong,  are  you  ?     Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross- 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.     Leave  your  place  : 
Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood  ;  you  will  waHc 
Forever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 
A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 
Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified, 
Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 
Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 
Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what  ? 
To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish  palaces, 
A  lewd  Herod ias 

DON  SILVA. 

Stop!  no  other  man, 

Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.     I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent's  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell  ! 
A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love  • 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 

You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 

With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 

By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 

Of  possibility  ? — cite  hideous  lists 

Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 

With  bugbears'  names,  as  women  fright  a  child? 

Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 

From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule 

And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone  ! 

Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sunshine  cold  to  me, 

Abolish  the  earth's  fairness,  prove  it  all 

A  fiction  of  my  eyes — then,  after  that, 

Profane  Fedalma. 

PRIOR. 

O  there  is  no  need  : 

She  has  profaned  herself.     Go,  raving  man, 
And  see  her  dancing  now.     Go,  see  your  bride 
Flaunting  her  beauties  grossly  in  the  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers — eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Pla^a  by  a  mountebank. 
I  hinder  you  no  farther. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  false! 

PRIOR. 
Go,  prove  it  false,  then. 

[Father  Isidor 

Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.     The  face 
That  flashed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 
Seemed  Silva's  vanished  confidence.     In  haste 
He  rushed  unsignalled  through  the  corridor 
To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 
Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms — 
Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty — said 
With  muffled  voice,  "  Fedalma  !  " — called  more  loud, 
More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse — 
Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still, 
But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  face 
Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 
By  agitated  tones.     He  hurried  back, 
Giving  half-conscious  orders  as  he  went 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  53 

To  page  and  usher,  that  they  straight  should  seek 
Lady  Fedalma  ;  then  with  stinging  shame 
Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 
Where  still  the  Father's  menace  seemed  to  hang 
Thickening  the  air  ;  snatched  cloak  and  plumed  hat; 
And  grasped,  not  knowing  why,  his  poniard's  hilt ; 
Then  checked  himself  and  said  : — ] 

If  he  spoke  truth  ! 

To  know  were  wound  enough — to  see  the  truth 
Were  fire  upon  the  wound.     It  must  be  false  ! 
His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men's  report.     I  am  a  fool  ! 
But  where  can  she  be  gone  ?  gone  secretly  ? 
And  in  my  absence  ?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong  ! 
I  am  a  fool ! — But  where  can  she  be  gone  ? 
With  only  Inez  ?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong  ! 
I  swear  she  never  meant  it.     There's  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it 

And  yet, 

What  is  our  certainty  ?     Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.     Mighty  confidence  ! 
One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow — sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless.     What  is — 
What  will  be — must  be — pooh  !  they  weight  the  key 
Of  that  which  is  not  yet  ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humors  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 
Know  what  is  good  ?     O  God,  we  know  not  yet 
If  bliss  is  not  young  misery 

With  fangs  swift  growing 

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  her. 
Oh  !  I  must  search — face  shame — if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez  !  hasten  to  Don  Alvar — tell  him 
Lady  Fedalma  must  be  sought — is  lost — 
Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.     He  must  send 
Toward  divers  points.     I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  in  the  town 

[As  Perez  oped  the  door 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 


54  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 

Of  serge  and  linen,  and  out  beaming  bright, 

Advanced  a  pace  toward  Silva — but  then  paused. 

For  he  had  started  and  retreated  ;  she, 

Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 

To  change  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 

Until  they  were  alone :  they  stood  and  looked. 

Within  the  Duke  was  struggling  confluence 

Of  feelings  manifold — pride,  anger,  dread, 

Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 

That  she  was  present,  with  the  new-stilled  thirst 

Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 

As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 

And  all  earth's  sweetness,  that  Fedalma's  soul 

Was  free  from  blemishing  purpose.     Yet  proud  wrath 

Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 

That  strove  to  drown  it :  Anger  seeks  its  prey — 

Something  to  tear  with  sharp-edged  tooth  and  claw. 

Likes  not  to  go  off  hungry,  leaving  love 

To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 

Silva's  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 

She  being  there  ;  but  to  be  happy — first 

He  must  be  angry,  having  cause.     Yet  love 

Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 

All  through  the  harshness  he  would  fain  hare  given 

To  the  dear  word.] 

DON  SILVA. 
Fedalma ! 

FEDALMA. 

O  my  lord  ! 
You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering  J 

DON  SILVA  (coldly,  but  with  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant. 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  no, 

I  should  have  told  you  after — not  before, 
Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

DON  SILVA. 

Then  my  known 
Can  make  no  hindrance  ? 


THE   SPANISH   GYESr.  5$ 

FSDALMA  (archly], 

That  depends 

On  what  the  wish  may  be.     You  wished  me  once 
Not  to  uncage  the  birds.     I  meant  to  obey  : 
But  in  a  moment  something — something  stronger, 
Forced  me  to  let  them  out.     It  did  no  harm. 
They  all  came  back  again — the  silly  birds  ! 
I  told  you,  after. 

DON  SILVA  (with  haughty  coldness). 

Will  you  tell  me  now 

What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
That  made  you  wander  ? 

FEDALMA  (advancing  a  step  toward  him,  with  a  sudden  look 
of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry  ? 

DON  SILVA  (smiling  bitterly). 

Angry? 

A  man  deep  wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

FEDALMA  (still  more  anxiously). 
You — deep  wounded  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  height  of  my  ambition  ?     You — 
No  enemy  could  do  it — you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  nay. 

Has  some  one  told  you  false  ?     I  only  went 
To  see  the  world  with  Inez — see  the  town, 
The  people,  everything.     It  was  no  harm. 
I  did  not  mean  to  dance  :  it  happened  so 

At  last 

DON  SILVA. 

O  God,  it's  true  then ! — true  that  yoo, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are, 
The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 


56  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled  ! 
You  own  it  true  —  you  danced  upon  the 


FED  ALMA  (proudly). 

Yes,  it  is  true.     I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 
The  air  was  filled  with  music,  with  a  song 
That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide  — 
The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  ear  — 
That  seemed  our  love  —  mine,  yours  —  they  are  but< 
Trembling  through  all  my  limbs,  as  fervent  words 
Tremble  within  my  soul  and  must  be  spoken. 
And  all  the  people  felt  a  common  joy 
And  shouted  for  the  dance.     A  brightness  soft 
As  of  the  angels  moving  down  to  see 
Illumined  the  broad  space.     The  joy,  the  life 
Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven  :  I  longed 
To  blend  them  visibly  :  I  longed  to  dance 
Before  the  people  —  be  as  mounting  flame 
To  all  that  burned  within  them  !     Nay,  I  danced  ; 
There  was  no  longing  :  I  but  did  the  deed 
Being  moved  to  do  it. 

(As   FEDALMA  speaks,  she  and  DON  SILVA  are  gradually 

drawn  nearer  to  each  other.) 

Oh  !  I  seemed  new-waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude  — 
Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  their  souls, 
Floating  within  their  gladness  !     Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness  :  Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 
I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 
Nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  aught 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.     And  once  done, 
Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 
I  pray  you,  say  so  —  say,  it  was  not  wrong  ! 

(  While  FEDALMA  has  been  making  this  last  appeal,  they  Aavf 
gradually  come  close  together,  and  at  last  embrace}. 

DON  SILVA  (holding  her  hands) 
Dangerous  rebel  !  if  the  world  without 
Were  pure  as  that  within  -  but  'tis  a  book 
Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 
And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.     Hence  the  nrrd 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  57 

For  trust— obedience — call  it  what  you  will — 
Toward  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard — toward  me 
Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

FEDALMA. 

Yes! 

That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 
I  shall  be  something  different — shall  be 
I  know  not  what,  a  Duchess  with  new  thoughts— 
For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men, 
Nor  wives  like  maidens  (Oh,  you  wot  not  yet 
How  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance) — 
That  very  thing  has  made  me  more  resolve 
To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 
How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 
Fedalma's  unwed  eyes  ?  and  so  to-day 
I  scolded  Ifiez  till  she  cried  and  went 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness  :  she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 
From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  your  destiny, 
Her  charge — my  trust — was  weightier. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  my  loud, 

You  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.     She  cried, 
Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last 
I  said  such  things  !     I  was  resolved  to  go,  x 
And  see  the  streets,  the  sliof  s,  the  men  at  work, 
The  women,  little  children- -everything. 
Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  Icoks  on. 
And  I  have  done  it  !     We  were  out  for  hours. 
I  feel  so  wise. 

DON  SILVA. 

Had  you  but  seen  the  town, 
You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself—- 
Shown yourself  dancing — you  bewilder  me  ! — 
Frusirutc  my  judgment  with  strange  negatives 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyord  the  dower 
Of  other  women :  wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  petty  currency. 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

You  daring  modesty  !     You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 

With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 

I  think  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 

Though  I  had  naught  to  feed  on  else.     Their  btue 

Is  better  than  the  heavens' — holds  more  love 

For  me,  Fedalma — is  a  little  heaven 

For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  precious  little  world  !  you  make  the  heavea 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.     But,  dear,  all  676% 
Though  looking  even  on  you,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes — 

FEDALMA. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you — 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 
There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 
JBut  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  limbs. 
And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 
And  I  stood  pausing — then  he  looked  at  me. 
O  Silva,  such  a  man  !     I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  place  of  long-imprisoned  souls. 
To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them, 
It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph's  joy, 
And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.     It  found  me  thcac  •• 
Seemed  to  have  traveled  far  to  find  me  there 
And  grasp  me — claim  this  festal  life  of  mine 
As  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 
With  the  cold  iron  of  some  unknown  bonds. 
The  gladness  hurrying  full  within  my  veins 
Was  sudden  frozen,  and  I  danced  no  more. 
But  seeing  you  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy, 
Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 
Yet,  Silva,  still  I  see  him.     Who  is  he  ? 
Who  are  those  prisoners  with  him?     Are  they  Moors? 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  k 
A  double  gain  ro  us  by  tiv3  Moors'  loss : 


.^:    GYPSY. 

The  man  you  mean — their  chief — is  an  ally 
The  infidel  will  miss.     His  look  might  chase 
A  herd  of  monks,  and  n;ake  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome's  lion.     Such  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 
Forget  it,  dear.     This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  are  sundered.     Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

FEDALMA. 

What  danger  ?  what  resolre  ? 
I  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  my  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  dark  enmity 

Plots  how  to  sever  us.     And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved, 
Then  publicly  declared.     Beseech  you,  dear, 
Grant  me  this  confidence  ;  do  my  will  in  this, 
Trusting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
Of  bridal  honors,  marking  when  you  step 
From  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.     There  is  great  need. 
I  hastened  home  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
Within  my  heart.     The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity — 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 
By  this  night's  moon  our  priest  will  be  dispatched 
From  Jae'n.     I  shall  march  an  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.     Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen — you  consenting — we  may  wed. 

FEDALMA. 
Nooe  knowing  that  we  wed  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Beforehand  none 

Save  Inez  and  Don  Alvar.  But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  us,  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.  No  man  then 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 
And  what  stains  you  must  stain  our  ancient  name  t, 
If  any  hate  you  I  will  take  his  hate, 
And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm  ; 
Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 
To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 
He  having  made  us  one.     Now  put  the  seal 
Of  your  dear  lips  on  that. 

FEDALMA. 

A  solemn  kiss  ? — 

Such  as  I  gave  you  when  you  came  that  day 
From  Cordova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved  ? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  Court 
For  thirst  to  see  me  ;  and  you  told  me  so, 
And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 
I  never  knew  before.     A  kiss  like  that  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine  1     When  was  our  kiss 
Like  any  other  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  I  cannot  tell 

What  other  kisses  are.     But  that  one  kiss 
Remains  upon  my  lips.     The  angels,  spirits, 
Creatures  with  finer  senses,  may  see  it  there. 
And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die, 
Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife ! 

kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  earnestly  in  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  FEDALMA,  breaking  away  from  DON 
SILVA,  stands  at  a  little  distance  front  him  with  a  look  of 
roguish  delight.} 

Now  I  am  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 
Before  I  am  a  Duchess — glad  I  gave 
This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.     For  once, 
Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Ifiez  said, 
*  You  are  no  more  a  little  girl  "  ;  I  grieved 
To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 
And  all  her  happy  world  so  near  the  ground. 
It  must  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 
So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  fcr  these  days 
Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.     Oh,  they  are  sweet, 


THE    SPANISH   GYPSY.  6l 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.     Perhaps  the  wind 
Wails  so  in  winter  for  the  summer's  dead, 
And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature's  funeral  cries 
For  what  has  been  and  is  not     Are  they,  Silva  ? 

(SJte  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
looking  up  at  him  with  melancholy?) 

DON  SILVA. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment, 

And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 

Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 

To  melancholy  sequence.     You  soared  high 

In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  when  you  danced, 

And  now  you  droop.     Tis  arbitrary  grief, 

Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 

Of  unwed  love,  which  does  but  die  like  seed 

For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 

We  in  our  wedded  life  shall  know  no  loss. 

We  shall  new-date  our  years.     What  went  before 

Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,  dreams  ; 

But  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 

For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 

And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.     Away  with  grief  ! 

When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 

Of  wife  and  duchess — spiritually  crowned 

With  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man — 

Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 

The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage — 

My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 

That  nourish  us  to  magnanimity 

Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 

Gathering  full-shapen  strength.     And  then  these  gems, 

(DON  SILVA  draws  FEDALMA  toward  the  jewel-casket  on  Mt 

table,  and  opens  it.) 

Helping  the  utterance  of  my  soul's  full  choice, 
Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use, 
And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustrousness. 
You  know  these  jewels  ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honor,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing  ;  and  I  give  them  you — 
Ask  you  to  take  them — place  our  house's  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  my  heart  has  found 


04  THE    SPANISH   G\rPSY. 

Worthiest,  most  beauteous.     These  rubies — see — 
Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(FED ALMA,  while  DON  SILVA  holds  open  the  casket,  bend*  icer 
it,  looking  at  the  jewels  -with  deligkt.) 

FEDALMA. 

Ah,  I  remember  them.     In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 
I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 
And  now  they  will  be  mine  !  I'll  put  them  oo. 
Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  you, 
That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  welL 
I  have  a  fear  sometimes  :  I  think  your  love 
Has  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 
And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 
But  when  the  Court  is  looking,  and  the  queen, 
Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.     Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished — 'twere  death  ! 

DON  SILVA  (taking  up  a  Jewel  and  placing  it  against  her  ear\ 

Nay,  let  us  try.     Take  out  your  ear-ring,  sweet. 
This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  ear. 

FEDALMA  (taking  out  her  ear-rings,  and  then  liftirg  ttp  tut 

other  jewels,  one  by  one.) 

Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(DON  SILVA  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring.) 

I  was  right  ! 

These  gems  have  life  in  them  :  their  colors  speak. 
Say  what  words  fail  of.     So  do  many  things — 
The  scent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountain's  plash, 
The  moving  shadows  on  the  far-off  hills, 
The  slanting  moonlight,  and  our  clasping  hands. 
O  Silva,  there's  an  ocean  round  our  words 
That  overflows  and  drowns  them.     Do  you  know 
Sometimes  when  we  sit  silent,  and  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  us  from  the  orange  trees, 
It  seems  that  with  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  nr.ist  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 
Is  it  not  true  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  63 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 
Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken  :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 

(ffe  it  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second  ear-ring,  while 
she  has  stooped  again  over  the  casket.} 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Ah  !  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.     Let  me  try. 
Women's  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  no  ! 
I  like  the  task,  only  you  must  be  still. 

(She  stands  perfectly  still,  clasping  her  hands  together  while  fa 
fastens  the  second  ear-ring.  Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  is 
heard  without.  ) 

FEDALMA  (starting  -with  an  expression  of  pain). 
What  is  that  sound  ?  —  that  jarring  cruel  sound  ? 
'Tis  there  —  outside. 

^Ske  tries  to  start  away  toward  the  window^  but  DON  SILVA 
detains 


DON   SILVA. 
O  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters  ;  sound  of  work 
Is  not  so  dismal.     Hark,  they  pass  along  ! 
I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 
I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.     O  horrible, 
To  be  in  chains  !  Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 
Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large  ; 
Have  felt  imprisoned  in  my  luxury 
With  servants  for  my  gaolers.     O  my  lord, 
Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  different  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
It  will  be  different  when  this  war  has  ceased. 


64  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 
Making  one  life  more  perfect. 

FEDALMA. 

That  is  true ! 

And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 
For  those  who  are  less  happy  than  ourselves.— 
(Brightening]  Oh  I  shall  rule  you  !  ask  for  many  things 
Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 
For  very  pride,  lest  men  should  say,  "  The  Duke 
Holds  lightly  by  his  Duchess  ;  he  repents 
His  humble  choice." 

(She  breaks  away  from  him  and  returns  to  the  jewels,  taking 
up  a  necklace,  and  clasping  it  on  her  neck,  while  ht  takes  a 
circlet  of  diamonds  and  rubies  and  raises  it  toward  her  head 
as  he  speaks.) 

DON  SILVA. 

Doubtless,  I  shall  persist  : 
In  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world 
Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feel  myself 
Happiest  of  men.     Now,  take  the  coronet. 

(He  places  the  circlet  cm  her  head.) 
The  diamonds  want  more  light.     See,  from  this  lamp 
I  can  set  tapers  burning. 

FEDALMA. 

Tell  me,  now, 

When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  end. 
And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  Cdrdova, 
Or  Seville,  or  Toledo — wait  awhile, 
I  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see — 

{SJu  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him,  and  them  advances  slowly.) 

Now  think  (I  would  the  tapers  gave  more  light !) 
If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments 
Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 
M  Duke  Silva  is  well  matched.     His  bride  was  nought, 
Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what ; 
Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 
Are  worn  with  grace  :  she  might  have  been  well  bora." 
Will  they  say  so  ?  Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 
And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  OJ 

DON  SILVA. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess ! 

Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.     None  can  say 
Don  Silva's  bride  might  better  fit  her  rank. 
You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind, 
As  eagle's  plumage  or  the  lion's  might. 
A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 

FEDALMA. 

Then  I  am  glad !     I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels — have  the  tapers  lit, 
And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

(She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 

Here  is  gold — 
A  necklace  of  pure  gold — most  finely  wrought 

(She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds  it  up  before  ker^ 

then  turns  to  DON  SILVA.) 
But  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord? 

DON  SILVA. 
No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.     Lay  it  down. 

(He  puts  the  necklace  gently  out  of  her  hand,  then  joins  both 

her  hands  and  holds  them  up  between  his  own.) 
You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 
But  look  at  me. 

FEDALMA  (looking  up  at  him). 

O  you  dear  heaven  ! 

I  should  see  naught  if  you  were  gone.     'Tis  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds — to  things 
That  fetter  thought  within  this  narrow  space. 
That  comes  of  fear. 

DON  SILVA. 
What  fear? 

FEDALMA. 

Fear  of  myself. 

For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 
The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 
A  longing  comes  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams — 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls, 
And  fly  far,  far  away  until  at  last 
I  find  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 
Remember  then  that  I  have  left  you — try 
To  fly  back  to  you — and  my  wings  are  gone ! 

DON  SILVA. 

A  wicked  dream  !     If  ever  I  left  you, 
Even  in  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me, 
And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  comes — 
I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 
That  longing  to  be  free,  1  am  afraid  : 
I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair, 
Weave  colors  in  it,  lay  out  all  my  gauds, 
And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 
You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish 
Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 
Escapes  in  wild  strange  wishes  ;  presently, 
It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 
And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 
Ifiez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery, 
Says  nought  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 
But  I  have  never  broidered — never  will. 
No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 
I  shall  ride  forth — may  I  not  ? — by  your  side. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.     Not  Queen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men's  eyes 
Than  my  dark  queen  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

Ah,  but  yon, 

You  are  my  king,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  great  fear  that  throbs  within  my  love. 
Does  your  love  fear? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ah,  yes!  all  preciousnesB 
To  mortal  hearts  is  guarded  by  a  fear. 
All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 
Its  own  perfection — seeing,  feeling  change 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

From  high  to  lower,  deare-  to  less  dear. 

Can  love  be  careless?    If  we  lost  our  love 

What  should  we  find  ?— with  this  sweet  Past  torn  of 

Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay? 

The  best  we  found  thenceforth  were  still  a  worse: 

The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 

On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 

In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 

To  life's  last  breath.     And  so  I  tremble  too 

Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

That  is  just. 

'Twere  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.     Yet  love  is  not  quite  even. 
For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 
Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  and  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.     So  we  women  still 
Axe  not  well  dealt  with.     Yet  I'd  choose  to  be 
Fedalma  loving  Silva.     You,  my  lord, 
Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 
But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  we  love, 
That  makes  true  good  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

O  subtlety !  for  me 

Tis  what  I  love  determines  how  I  love. 
The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herself 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

FEDALMA. 

Do  you  worship  me? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ay,  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

FEDALMA  (archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 
Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes — listening  to  this  prayer.     This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.     And  you  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me  ? 


68  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

FEDALMA. 
Yes. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  shall  surely  come, 

And  then  we  shall  be  married.     Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderrahman's  tower. 
Farewell,  love  ! 

(They  embrace.} 
FEDALMA. 
Some  chill  dread  possesses  me  ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  confidence  has  oft  been  evil  augury, 
So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.     Sweet,  farewell  . 
I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass,  to  bear 
This  casket  to  your  chamber.  —  One  more  kiss. 


FEDALMA  (when  DON  SILVA  is  gone,  returning  to  the  casket, 

and  looking  dreamily  at  the  jewels"). 
Yes,  now  that  good  seems  less  impossible  ! 
Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  his  wife, 
Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 
In  all  his  purposes  — 

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.     How  they  glow! 
Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 
Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud  ; 
Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 
Ache  from  intenseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 
Compact  of  crystal  splendor,  and  to  flood 
Some  wider  space  with  glory  ?     Poor,  poor  gems  ! 
We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house, 
And  find  our  space  in  loving.     Pray  you,  love  me. 
Let  us  be  glad  together.     And  you,  gold  — 

(She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace?) 

You  wondrous  necklace  —  will  you  love  me,  too, 
And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 
From  eyes  that  hurt  ? 

(She  spreads  out  the  necklace,  meaning  to  clasp  ,/  on  her  neck. 
Then  pauses,  startled,  holding  it  before  her.) 
Why,  it  is  magical  ] 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  69 

He  says  he  never  wore  it — yet  these  lines — 

Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 

'Twas  he,  no  other.     And  these  twisted  lines— 

They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 

To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past 

What  is  their  secret  ?     Are  they  characters  ? 

I  never  learned  them  ;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 

That  once  I  dreamed — 1  have  forgotten  what. 

Or  was  it  life  ?     Perhaps  I  lived  before 

In  some  strange  world  where  first  my  soul  was  shaped, 

And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 

That  come,  I  know  not  whence,  and  sway  my  deeds, 

Are  old  imperious  memories,  blind  yet  strong, 

That  this  world  stirs  within  me  ;  as  this  chain 

Stirs  some  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 

And  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 

Into  the  darkness  painfully. 

While  FED  ALMA  has  been  looking  at  the  necklace,  JUAN  has 
entered,  and  finding  himself  unobserved  by  her,  says  at 
last.} 

Senora ! 

(FEDALMA  starts,  and  gathering  the  necklace  together  turn* 
round.) 
Oh,  Juan,  it  is  you  ! 

JUAN. 

I  met  the  Duke — 

Had  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why — 
And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burden  you  would  give, 
I  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 
Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  lacking  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant  ^ 
But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

FEDALMA  (smiling). 

That  sounds  welL 

You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs. 
But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.     Your  pupil  learns 
But  little  from  you  now.     Her  studies  flag. 
The  Duke  says,  "  That  is  idle  Juan's  way  : 


THE    SPANISH    6YPSY. 

Poets  must  rove — are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy."     Said  he  quite  true? 

JUAN. 

O  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  rank. 

One  man's  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad, 

Holds  its  head  high,  and  tells  the  world  it's  name: 

Another  man's  is  beggared,  must  go  bare, 

And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 

But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 

Itself  the  jester.     But  I  see  you  hold 

The  Gypsy's  necklace  :  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 

FEDALMA. 
The  Gypsy's  ?     Do  you  know  its  history  ? 

JUAN. 

No  farther  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer's  neck — the  Gypsy  chief's. 

FEDALMA  (eagerly). 

What  !  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell, 
Before  me  in  the  Plapa  ? 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  saw 
His  look  fixed  on  you. 

FEDALMA. 

Know  you  aught  of  him  F 

JUAN. 

Something  and  nothing — as  I  know  the  sky, 
Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 
That  hides  a  secret.     I  have  oft  talked  with  him. 
He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 
Who  draws  down  rain  by  sprinkling ;  throws  me  out 
Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment  ;  casts 
A  sharp-hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 
It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  hard 

That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner- 
Be  chained  to  work. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  >ff 

JUAN. 

Oh,  he  is  dangerous  ! 
Grandda  wkh  this  Zarca  for  a  king 
Might  still  maim  Christendom.     He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie.     A  Gypsy,  too, 
Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  mother-milk 
Has  filled  his  veins  with  hate. 

FEDALMA. 

I  thought  his  eyes 

Spoke  not  of  hatred — seemed  to  say  he  bore 
The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 
What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts, 
And  must  be  hunted  ? — let  them  be  set  free, 
Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
And  fight  for  life  and  offspring.     Prisoners  ! 
Oh  !  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams, 
Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines, 
Their  roof  the  living  sky  that  breathes  with  light : 
They  may  well  hate  a  cage,  like  strong-winged  bird% 
Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 
I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  free. 

JUAN. 

Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn, 
Or  try  to  play  the  sage.     What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies  ?  if  their  name 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss  ? 
I  speak  not  as  of  fact.     Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 
Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.     Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  and  make  us  seers. 
'Tis  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 
Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 
Note  what  I  say  no  farther  than  will  stead 
The  siege  you  lay.     I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold : 
It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 

FEDALMA. 

Fear  not,  Juan. 
Your  words  bring  daylieht  with  them  when  you  speak. 


7*  THE    SPAMhK    OYl'SY. 

I  understand  your  care.     But  I  am  brave—- 
Oh !  and  so  cunning  ! — always  I  prevail. 
Now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil's  servant,  bear  this  casket  hence. 
Nay,  not  the  necklace  :  it  is  hard  to  place. 
Pray  go  before  me  ;  Inez  will  be  there. 

(Exit  JUAN  with  the  casket.} 
FEDALMA  (looking  again  at  the  necklace}. 

It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 

If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad, 

Fates,  separate  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 

When  we  are  blind,  or  sleep,  then  this  man's  fate, 

Hovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 

Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 

Dangerous,  is  he  ? — well,  a  Spanish  knight 

Would  have  his  enemy  strong — defy,  not  bind  him. 

I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 

By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 

If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 

I  should  find  ways  to  free  him — disobey 

And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.     But  no  ! 

As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I'll  put  my  prayer, 

And  he  will  not  deny  me  :  he  is  good. 

Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy ! 

Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 

A  street  by  the  castle.  JUAN  leans  against  a  parapet,  in 
moonlight,  and  touches  his  lute  half  unconsciously.  PEpiTA 
stands  on  tiptoe  watching  him,  and  then  advances  till  her 
shadow  falls  in  front  of  him.  He  looks  toward  her.  A  piect 
0f  white  drapery  thrown  over  her  head  catches  the  moonlight. 

JUAN. 

Ha !  my  Peplta !  see  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.     'Tis  so  your  ghost  will  be, 
When  you  are  dead. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself}. 

Dead  ! — O  the  blessed  saints  ! 
You  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died  ? 

JUAN. 

Glad  !  why  ?    Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.     Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.     I  like  you  living. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

PEPITA. 

1  think  you  like  me  not.     I  wish  you  did. 
Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance, 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me. 
Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile, 
But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  1  kissed  him. 

JUAN. 
My  poor  Pepfta,  I  am  old. 

PEPITA. 

No,  no. 

You  have  no  wrinkles. 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  have — within ; 
The  wrinkles  are  within,  my  little  bird. 
Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself). 

Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  is  wicked  talk  ! 

You  say  it  but  to  scorn  me.     (  With  a  sob)  I  will  ga 

JUAN. 

Stay,  little  pigeon,  I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.     Nay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  cheek  to  kiss.     There,  cry  no  more  ! 

{PEPITA,  sitting  on  the  low  parapet,  puts  ttpher  cheek  to  JUAK, 
who  kisses  it,  putting  his  hand  under  her  chin.  She  takes 
his  hand  and  kisses  it.) 

PEPITA. 

I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.     It  is  so  good — 
So  smooth  and  soft. 

JUAN. 

Well,  well,  I'll  sing  to  you. 
PEPITA. 
A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry  ? 

JUAN, 

Yes. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

JUAN  (sitfgs). 

Memory, 
Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  TubcUf 

Is  it  Spring's 
Lovely  things, 
Blossoms  white, 
Rosy  dight  ? 

Then  it  is  Peptta. 

Summer's  crest 
Red-gold  tressed, 

Corn-flower  peeping  under  ! — 
Idle  noons, 
Lingering  moons, 
Sudden  clouds, 
Lightning's  shroud, 
Sudden  rain, 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder  % — 
Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  f 

So  too  is  Pepita. 

Autumn  s  prime, 
Apple-time, 
Smooth  check  round, 
'Heart  all  sound? — 
Js  it  this 
You  would  kiss? 
Then  it  is  Pepita. 

You  can  bring 
No  sweet  thing, 
£ut  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepit* 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she— 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  7fi 

She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal. 

PEP!TA  (seizing  JUAN'S  hand  agoing 
Oh,  then,  do  you  love  me  ? 

JUAN. 

Yes,  in  the  song. 

PEPITA  (sadly). 
Not  out  of  it  ? — not  love  me  out  of  it  ? 

JUAN. 

Only  a  little  out  of  it,  my  bird, 
When  I  was  singing  I  was  Andres,  say, 
Or  one  who  loves  you  better  still  than  he. 

PEPITA. 
Not  yourself  ? 

JUAN. 

No! 

PEPITA  (throwing  his  hand  down  pettishly). 

Then  take  it  back  again! 
I  will  not  have  it  ! 

JUAN. 

Listen,  little  one. 

Juan  is  not  a  living  man  by  himself  ; 
His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men, 
And  they  speak  out  of  him.     He  is  their  voice. 
Juan's  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  away. 
Pepita's  lover  sang  that  song — not  Juan. 
We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts, 
Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man's, 
They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We  keep  within  us.     There,  now — one  more  kiss. 
PEP!TA  (a  little  frightened  after  letting  JUAN  kiss  her). 

You  are  not  wicked  ? 

JUAN. 

Ask  your  confessor — tell  him  what  I  said. 
(PEPITA  goes  while  JUAN  thrums  his  lute  again,  and  sings). 


j  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY 

Came  a  pretty  maid 

By  the  moon's  pure  light. 
Loved  me  well,  she  said, 

Eyes  with  tears  all  bright^ 
A  pretty  maid! 

But  too  late  she  strayed, 

Moonlight  pure  ii>as  there  / 
She  ivas  naught  but  sJiade 

Hiding  the  more  fair, 
The  heavenly  maid ! 

A  vaulted  room  all  stone.     The  light  shed  from  a  high  lamp. 

Wooden  chairs,  a  desk,  book-shelves.     The  PRIOR  in  white 

frock,  a  black  rosary  with  a  crucifix  of  ebony  and  ivory  at 

his  side,  is  walking  up  and  down,  holding  a  written  paper  in 

his  hands,  -which  are  clasped  behind  him. 

What  if  this  witness  lies  ?  he  says  he  heard  her 

Counting  her  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 

And  in  a  bold  discourse  with  Salomo, 

Say  that  the  Host  was  naught  but  ill-mixed  flour, 

That  it  was  mean  to  pray — she  never  prayed. 

I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 

Who  follows  Don  Diego,  sees  life's  good 

In  scraps  rny  nephew  flings  to  him  !     What  then? 

Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth. 

I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic — 

Know  her  for  Satan's  instrument,  bedecked 

With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 

To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctified. 

Let  her  be  prisoned — questioned — she  will  give 

Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false 

(He  looks  at  the  paper  again  and  reads,  then  again  thrusts  it 
behind  him.) 

The  matter  and  the  color  are  not  false  : 

The  form  concerns  the  witness,  not  the  judge; 

For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  sifting  mind, 

Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 

Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I — 

I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Office,  bear 

That  lamp  in  trust.     I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 

The  Holy  Inquisition's  discipline 

Is  mercy,  saving  her.  if  penitent — 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

God  grant  it ! — else — root  up  the  poison-plant, 

Though  'twere  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart ! 

This  spotless  raaiden  with  her  pagan  soul 

Is  the  arch-enemy's  trap :  he  turns  his  back 

On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 

To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 

In  rebel  virtues.     She  has  poisoned  Silva  ; 

His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfulness, 

Strong  in  the  contradiction  of  itself, 

Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily, 

As  holy  vows  regretted.     Once  he  seemed 

The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 

For  feats  of  holy  daring*;  and  I  said  : 

That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce, 

Shall  be  fulfilled  in  him :  Silva  will  be 

That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior, 

That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 

I  would  have  been,  had  I  not  asked  to  live 

The  higher  life  of  man  impersonal 

Who  reigns  o'er  all  things  by  refusing  all." 

What  is  his  promise  now?     Aposcasy 

From  every  high  intent — languid,  nay,  gone, 

The  prompt  devoutness  of  a  generous  heart, 

The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 

That  breathes  the  Church's  air  and  sees  her  light 

He  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning, 

Or  else  he  jests.     He  thinks  I  know  it  not — 

I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse, 

As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel's  book. 

He  will  defy  me — flings  great  words  at  me — 

Me  who  have  governed  all  our  house's  acts, 

Since  I,  a  stripling,  ruled  his  stripling  father. 

This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 

The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 

Far  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 

And  fill  it  infamously  :  in  God's  war 

Slackness  is  infamy.     Shall  I  stand  by 

And  let  the  tempter  win  ?  defraud  Christ's  cause, 

And  blot  his  banner  ? — all  for  scruples  weak 

Of  pity  toward  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood ; 

Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 

By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue? 

The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd  ; 

They  walk  by  averaged  precepts  :  sovereign  men. 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Seeing  by  God's  light,  see  the  general 
By  seeing  all  the  special — own  no  rule 
But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment's  worth. 
'Tis  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men — 
Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 
Evil  that  good  may  come?  Measure  the  good 
Before  you  say  what's  evil.      Perjury  ? 
I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  I  will  use  him 
To  serve  the  holy  truth.     There  is  no  lie 
Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 
I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

O  God,  thou  knowest  that  my  will  is  pure. 

Thy  servant  owns  naught  for  himself,  his  wealth 

Is  but  obedience.     And  I  have  sinned 

In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love — 

Calling  it  mercy.     Mercy  ?   Where  evil  is 

True  mercy  holds  a  sword.     Mercy  would  save. 

Save  whom  ?     Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves  ? 

Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 

Within  a  famished  town  ?  Or  save  the  gains 

Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve  ? 

Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth 

Stifling  the  better  ?    Save  the  fools  who  cling 

For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol's  limbs, 

So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed, 

And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters  ? 

O  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 

That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time  ! 

Mercy  has  eyes  that  pierce  the  at^es — sees 

From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 

Far-scattered  consequence  in  its  vast  sum  ; 

Chooses  to  save,  but  with  illumined  vision 

Sees  that  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

'Tis  so  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees  :  its  wrath 

Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.     He  who  loves 

God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

And  I  have  sinned  in  In-ing  merciful  : 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slack  in  love. 

(ffe  takes  the  crucifix  and  holds  it  up  before  hint) 

Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 
Thou  man  of  sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  ^nd  *orn, 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  7f 

Suffering  to  save — wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world  ? 

This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 

That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 

And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail, 

Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 

Charged  with  the  power  that  makes  the  lightning  strong, 

And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 

And  thou,  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild, 

Thou  sevenfold-pierced,  thou  pitying,  pleading  Queen, 

Shalt  see  and  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 

Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 

Purging  the  Holy  Light.     Yea,  I  have  sinned 

And  called  it  mercy.     But  I  shrink  no  more. 

To-morrow  morn  this  temptress  shall  be  safe 

Under  the  Holy  Inquisition's  key. 

He  thinks  to  wed  her,  and  defy  me  then, 

She  being  shielded  by  our  house's  name. 

But  he  shall  nerer  wed  her.     I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.     Exurgc,  Dominc, 
Judica  causam  tuam.     Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  the  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furnace  lip  ! 

A  large  chamber  richly  furnished  opening  on  a  terrace-garden^ 
the  trees  visible  through  the  window  in  faint  moonlight. 
Flowers  hanging  about  the  window,  lit  up  by  the  tapers. 
The  casket  of  jewels  open  on  a  table.  The  gold  necklace 
lying  near.  FEDALMA,  splendidly  dressed  and  adorned  with 
pearls  and  rubies,  is  walking  up  and  down. 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep, 

But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 

To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 

To  subtlest  odors,  pulses,  visitings 

That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 

To  be  discerned  amid  ,the  glare  of  day. 

(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some  jasmine  :   then 
walks  again.) 

Surely  these  flowers  keep  happy  watch — their  breath 

Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 

I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep  : 

It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 

This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 


8o  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  of  tenderness 
And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 
I  need  the  curta'ned  stillness  of  the  night 
To  live  through  all  my  happy  hours  again 
With  more  selection — cull  them  quite  away 
From  blemished  moments.     Thenin  loneliness 
The  face  that  bent  before  me  in  the  day 
Rises  in  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 
Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ceaseless  glows 
With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 
Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow- 
Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing, 
Mingling  with  all  my  being.     Then  the  words, 
The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 
With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 
Of  softly  hurrying  brooks — "  My  only  love — 
My  love  while  life  shall  last — my  own  Fedalma!** 
Oh,  it  is  mine — the  joy  that  once  has  been  ! 
Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer, 
Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory, 
Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

(She pauses  a  moment  musingly.} 

But  that  dumb  hope  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 
Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread 
In  this  fair  paradise.     For  if  the  earth 
Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 
Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 

But  empty  blackness 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear — 

They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy, 
And  all  that  past  which  is  securely  mine, 
Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Our  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love  ! 

(  While  she  is  uttering  the  last  words,  a  little  bird  falls  softly 
on  the  floor  behind  her  ;  she  hears  the  light  sound  of  its  fall 
and  turns  round.) 

Did  something  enter  ? 

Yes,  this  little  bird 

(She  lifts  it.) 

Dead  and  yet  warm  ;  'twas  seeking  sanctuary, 
And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  8l 

Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing  ! 
A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood — what  blood  ? 
The  streaks  are  written  words — are  sent  to  me — 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me  !     Dear  child,  Fedalma, 
Be  brave,  give  no  alarm— your  Father  comes  ! 

(She  lets  the  bird  fall  again.") 
My  Father comes my  Father 

(She  turns  in  quivering  expectation  toward  the  window.  There 
is  perfect  stillness  a  few  moments  until  ZARCA  appears  at 
the  wind&iu.  He  enters  quickly  and  noiselessly  j  then  stands 
still  at  his  full  height,  and  at  a  distance  from  FEDALMA.) 

FEDALMA  (in  a  low  distinct  tone  of  terror}. 

It  is  he  ! 

1  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

ZARCA  (advancing  a  step  or  two}. 
You  know,  then,  who  I  am  ? 
FEDALMA. 

The  prisoner — 
He  whom  I  saw  in  fetters — and  this  necklace 

ZARCA. 

Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  hung 
About  my  neck,  full  fifteen  years  ago. 

FEDALMA  (looking  at  the  necklaie  and  handling  it,  then 
ing,  as  if  unconsciously}. 

Full  fifteen  years  ago  ! 

ZARCA. 

The  very  day 

I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiny  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery  ; 
rTwas  clasped  in  front  by  coins — two  golden  coins. 
The  one  upon  thaleft  was  Split  in  two 
Across  the  king's  head,  right  from  brow  to  nape. 
A  dent  i'  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 
You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  hear'.. 


»2  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

FEDALMA  (growing  paler  and  more  tremulous). 
Yes.  It  is  true — I  have  the  gown — the  clasps — 
The  braid — sore  tarnished  : — it  is  long  ago  ! 

ZARCA. 

But  yesterday  to  me  ;  for  till  to-day 
I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 
And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 
Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck, 
And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 
Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 
Up  to  my  shoulder.     You  were  not  stolen  all. 
You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart 

(FEDALMA,   letting  fall  the  necklace,   makes    an    impulsive 
movement  toward  him,  with  outstretched  hands) 
The  Gypsy  father  loves  his  children  well. 

FEDALMA  (shrinking,  trembling,  and  letting  fall  her  hands}, 
How  came  it  that  you  sought  me — no — I  mean 
How  came  it  that  you  knew  me — that  you  lost  me  ? 

ZARCA  (standing  perfectly  still). 
Poor  child  !  I  see — your  father  and  his  rags 
Are  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 
Within  this  silken  chamber.     It  is  well. 
I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign, 
And  aped  a  sudden  love.     Better,  true  hate. 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  eyes  toward  hint,  with  a  flash  ef  ad- 
miration, and  looking  at  him  fixedly). 
Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other  ? 

ZARCA. 

I  lost  you  as  a  man  may  lose  a  gem 
Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 
Or  the  right  hand  whose  cunning  makes  him  great : 
I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 
Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 
Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds, 
Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  lift 
When  Zind,  your  nurse,  as  she  confessed,  was  urged 
By  burning  thirst  to  wander  toward  the  stream, 
And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 
Playing  with  pebbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 
"Twas  so  I  lost  you — never  saw  you  more 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing  !     Saw 
The  daughter  of  the  Zincala  make  sport 
For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people's  name. 

FED  ALMA  (vehemently). 

It  was  not  sport.     What  if  the  world  looked  on  ^— 
I  danced  for  joy  —  for  love  of  all  the  world. 
But  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed  — 
Stabbed    with    your    pain.      I    wondered  -  now 

know  - 
It  was  my  father's  pain. 


uses  a  moment  with  eyes  bent  downward,  during  which 
ZARCA  examines  her  face.      Then  she  says  quickly!) 
How  were  you  sure 
At  once  I  was  your  child  ? 

ZARCA. 

I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  you  ! 
I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 
Of  one  named  Juan  —  one  whose  rapid  talk 
Showers  like  the  blossoms  from  a  light-twigged  shrub, 
If  you  but  cough  beside  it.     I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Spanish  nurture  —  all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.     When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown; 
Belief  was  turned  to  vision  :  then  I  saw 
That  she  whom  Spaniards  called  the  bright  Fedalma-- 
The  little  red-frocked  foundling  three  years  old  — 
Grown  to  such  perfectness  the  Spanish  Duke 
Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess  —  was  the  child, 
Sole  offspring  of  my  flesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us, 
Hurried  her  on  to  death.     Therefore  I  sought  — 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you  —  claim  my  child, 
Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 
But  from  herself. 

'FEDALMA  has  gradually  approached  close  to  ZARCA,  andwitk 
a  low  sob  sinks  on  her  knees  before  him.  He  stoops  to  kiss 
her  brow,  and  lays  his  hands  on  her  head!) 

ZARCA  (with  solemn  tenderness). 
Then  my  child  owns  her  father? 


&4  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY 

FEDALMA. 

Father  J  yea. 

1  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 

ZARCA. 

There  my  daughter  spoke. 
Away  then  with  these  rubies ! 

(He  seizes  the  circlet  of  rubies  and  flings  it  on  the  ground. 
FEDALMA,  starting  from  the  ground  with  strong  emotion, 
shrinks  backward.} 

Such  a  crown 

Is  infamy  around  a  Zincala's  brow. 
It  is  her  people's  blood,  decking  her  shame. 

FEDALMA  (after  a  moment,  slowly  and  distinctly,  as  if  accepting 

a  dooni). 
Then 1  was  born a  Zincala  ? 

ZARCA. 

Of  a  blood 
Unmixed  as  virgin  wine-juice. 

FEDALMA. 

Of  a  race 
More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew  ? 

ZARCA. 

Yes  :  wanderers  whom  no  God  took  knowledge  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  them,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  ampler  room  ; 
Who  have  no  Whence  or  Whither  in  their  souls, 
No  dimmest  lore  of  glorious  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth  for  piety. 

FEDALMA. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 
With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised, 
It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned, 
Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rat% 
Or  swarming  3ies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 
Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  and  flung  far  off 
To  peris'r.  as  they  may  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSV.  »S 

ZARCA. 

You  paint  us  well. 

So  abject  are  the  men  whose  blood  we  share  : 
Untutored,  unbefriended,  unendowed ; 
No  favorites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 
Therefore  I  cling  to  them  !     Therefore  no  lure 
Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 
The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 
And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 
Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  wilL 
Because  our  race  has  no  great  memories, 
I  will  so  live,  it  shall  remember  me 
For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneficence 
As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 
By  blessing  them.     I  have  been  schooled — have  caught 
Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor — 
Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life, 
Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past ; 
But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 
Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 
I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 
My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 
And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 

[FEDALMA  again  advances,  and  putting  forth  her  right  hand 
grasps  ZARCA'S  left.  He  places  his  other  hand  on  htr 
shoulder.  They  stand  so,  looking  at  each  other.) 

ZARCA. 

And  you,  my  child  ?  are  you  of  other  mind, 
Choosing  forgetfulness,  hating  the  truth 
That  says  you  are  akin  to  needy  men  ? — 
Wishing  your  father  were  some  Christian  Duke, 
Who  could  hang  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
While  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care  ? 

FEDALMA  (in  a  troubled  eager  voice). 

No,  I  should  always  care — I  cared  for  you — 
For  all,  before  I  dreamed 

ZARCA. 

Before  you  dreamed 

That  you  were  born  a  Zincala — your  flesh 
Stamped  with  your  people's  faith. 


«0  THE      SPANISH     GYPSY. 

FEDALMA  (bitterly). 

The  Gypsies'  faith? 
Men  say  they  have  none. 

ZARCA. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 

Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts ; 
Faith  to  each  other  ;  the  fidelity 
Of  fellow  wanderers  in  a  desert  place 
Who  share  the  same  dire  thirst,  and  therefore  share 
The  scanty  water  ;  the  fidelity 
Of  men  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire, 
Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands, 
The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  birth, 
Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 
The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 
Which  makes  the  many  one  ;  fidelity 
To  the  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 
Made  through  our  infant  breath  when  we  were  born 
The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island,  Life, 
Where  we  must  dig  and  sow  and  reap  with  brothers. 
Fear  thou  that  oath,  my  daughter — nay,  not  fear, 
But  love  it ;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 
Lies  not  in  lightning  that  avenges  them, 
But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 
And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 
And  you  have  sworn — even  with  your  infant  breath 

You  too  were  pledged 

JBDALMA  (letting  go  ZARCA'S  hand,  and  sinking  backward  o+ 

her  knees,  with   bent  head,  as   if  before   some  impending 

(rushing  weight). 

To  what  ?  what  have  I  sworn  ? 
ZARCA. 

To  take  the  heirship  of  the  Gypsy's  child ; 
The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 
The  saviour  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail 
Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 
The  prize  of  renegades.     Nay  will  not  choose— 
Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  couls  to  be  weak? 
For  men  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes  ? 
I  choose  not — I  am  Zarca.     Let  him  choose 
Who  halts  and  wavers,  having  appetite 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  87 

To  feed  on  garbage.    You,  my  child— are  you 
Halting  and  wavering  ? 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task. 

ZARCA. 

To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe  ; 
To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  no  prophet 
And  make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 
A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 
Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 
Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 
Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 
I'll  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 
Where  they  shall  plant  and  sow  and  reap  their  own, 
Serving  each  other's  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 
To  skill  in  all  the  arts  that  succor  life ; 
Where  we  may  kindle  our  first  altar-fire 
From  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 
The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 
That  land  awaits  them  ;  they  await  their  chief — 
Me  who  am  prisoned.     All  depends  on  you. 

FEDALMA  (rising  to  her  full  height  and  looking  solemnly  at 
ZARCA). 

Father,  your  child  is  ready  !     She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred ;  she  will  brave  all  scorn 
Sooner  than  scorn  herself.     Let  Spaniards  all — 
Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 
"Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves." 
Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?     They,  too, 
Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 
Till  Moses,  Christ  and  Mahomet  were  born, 
Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived, 
And  lived  to  save  their  people.     Father,  listen. 
The  Duke  to-morrow  weds  me  secretly ; 
But  straight  he  will  present  me  as  his  wife 
To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 
And  noble  pages.     Then  I  will  declare 
Before  them  all,  "I  am  his  daughter,  his, 
The  Gipsy's,  owner  of  this  golden  badge." 
Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom — then  the  Duke — 
Why,  he  will  be  your  son  ! — will  send  you  forth 


88  THE      SPANISH      GYPSY. 

Witn  aid  and  honors.     Then,  before  all  eye*. 
I'll  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 
For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 
'  I  glory  in  my  father.'  "     This,  to-morrow. 

ZARCA. 

A  woman's  dream — who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.     What  !  marry  first, 
And  then  proclaim  your  birth  ?     Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom  ?     Share  another's  name, 
Then  treat  it  as  you  will  ?     How  will  that  tune 
Ring  in  your  bridegroom's  ears — that  sudden  song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gipsy  father  ? 

FEDALMA  (discouraged). 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.     We  marry  hastily — 
Yet  there  is  time — there  will  be  : — in  less  space 
Than  he  can  take  to  loojk  at  me,  I'll  speak 
And  tell  him  all.     Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  ! 
His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  hate  ; 
Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  s\vay 
Demons  that  haunt  me — tempt  me  to  rebel. 
Were  he  Fedalma  and  I  Silva,  he 
Could  love  confession,  prayers  and  tonsured  monks 
If  my  soul  craved  them.     He  will  never  hate 
The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  the  most. 
I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 
Having  his  will  to  help  me.     And  to-morrow, 
Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 
You — every  Gipsy  chained,  shall  be  set  free. 

ZARCA  (coming  nearer  to  her  and  laying  his  hand  on  her 

shoulder). 

Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child  ! 
Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 
Must  help  its  heroes — not  by  wordy  breath, 
By  easy  prayers  strong  in  a  lover's  ear, 
By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets,  and  wafted  kisses, 
And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done, 
Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 
And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 
Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 
Not  to  such  petty  mercies  as  can  fall 
Twtvt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery, 


THE     SPANISH      GYPSY.  89 

Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 

Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 

A  man  sun-stricken  ;  not  to  such  trim  merit 

As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 

And  simpers  meekly  at  the  pious  stain, 

But  never  trod  with  naked  bleeding  feet 

Where  no  man  praised  it,  and  where  no  Church  blessed; 

Not  to  such  alms-deeds  fit  for  holidays 

Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated — bound 

By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 

In  murdered  brother's  blood  and  call  it  sweet — 

When  you  were  born  beneath  the  dark  man's  tent, 

And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe, 

Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 

Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 

As  in  the  oft-tried  never-failing  flint 

They  strike  their  fire  from.     Other  work  is  youre. 

FEDALMA. 
What  work  ? — what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me  ? 

ZARCA. 

A  work  as  pregnant  as  the  act  of  men 
Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  land. 
A  fatal  deed 

FEDALMA. 

Stay  !  never  utter  it ! 
If  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me.     Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 
Of  men  as  numerous  as  the  dim  white  stars — 
As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart's  pulse. 
No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 
With  grains  to  make  a  mountain,  can  outweigh 
For  me,  his  ill  who  is  my  supreme  love. 
All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 
Making  me  shudder  at  an  unfelt  smart ; 
But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  fire 
That  scorches  me. 

ZARCA. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well — 

The  first  young  passionate  wail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.  In  vain,  my  daughter  ! 
Lav  fhe  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 


90  THE      SPANISH      GYPSY. 

The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 

Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 

And  make  it  spread  it  wings  and  poise  itself 

For  the  eagle's  flight      Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 

(FEDALMA  stands  half  averted,  as  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of 

his  looks  and  words.} 

My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 

In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 

Where  we  were  locked  with  slight  and  sleepy  guard — 

We  who  had  files  hid  in  our  shaggy  hair, 

And  possible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 

In  half  our  garments.     Oh,  that  Moorish  blood 

Runs  thick  and  warm  to  us,  though  thinned  by  chrism. 

I  found  a  friend  among  our  gaolers — one 

Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  Moor's  ally. 

I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.     Listen. 

Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 

Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 

In  its  slow  straggling  course  it  branches  off 

Toward  a  low  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 

To  such  unevenness,  it  seems  one  piece 

With  the  rough-hewn  rock.     Open  that  door,  it  leads 

Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  under-ground 

A  good  half  mile  out  to  the  open  plain: 

Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 

From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house's  wealth 

In  women  or  in  gold.     To  find  that  door 

Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 

Just  to  the  turning-point  :  to  open  it, 

Needs  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 

You  have  that  secret:  you  will  ope  that  door, 

And  fly  with  us. 

FEDALMA  (receding  a  little,  and  gathering  herself  up  in  mt 
attitude  of  resolve  opposite  to  ZARCA.) 

No,  I  will  never  fly  ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.     I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more  ;  it  is  not  possible. 
Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 
At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts  ;  nay,  in  my  blood 
There  streams  the  sense  unspeakable  of  kind, 
As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.     But — 


THE     SPANISH    GYPSY.  9! 

Look  at  these  hands  !     You  say  when  they  were  little 

They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 

I  do  believe  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 

Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 

Of  growing  memory.     But  see  them  now  ! 

Oh,  they  have  made  fresh  records;  twined  themsehriS 

With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  pulses  feed 

Not  memories  only  but  a  i>K-nded  life — 

Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 

Have  pity  on  me,  father  !    Wait  the  morning  ; 

Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.     I  will  win 

Your  freedom  openly:  you  shall  go  forth 

With  aid  and  honors.     Silva  will  deny 

Nought  to  my  asking 

ZARCA  (with  contemptuous  decision]. 

Till  you  ask  him  aught 

Wherein  he  is  powerless.     Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 
And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 
To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.     They'll  murmur  more  and  louder 
If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 
For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed — 
Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.     What, 
Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them  ! 
'Tis  flat  against  the  edict.     Nay,  perchance 
Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 
Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger  ;  for  your  Duke 
Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 
The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 
Such  good  you'll  work  your  lover  by  your  prayer* 

FEDALMA. 

Then,  J  will  free  you  now  !     You  shall  be  safe, 
Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 
I  will  declare  what  I  have  done  :  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  off — 

ZARCA. 

Ay,  till  the  time 

When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 
And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 


92  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY 

FEDALMA. 
And  why  ? 

ZARCA. 

I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 

FEDALMA. 
You  tell  me  that? 

ZARCA. 

Yes,  for  I'd  have  you  choose  ; 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are — my  blood — 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 

FEDALMA. 

I  only  owe 
A  daughter's  debt ;  I  was  not  born  a  slave. 

ZARCA. 

No,  not  a  slave  ;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
Tis  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort, 
Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  hold  all  life  together.     Royal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 
And  you  are  called  to  do  them.     You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman's  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 
Who  trust  in  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind  ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  unyeaned  reason  is,  that  grows  and  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition. 

FEDALMA. 

No! 

I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me — whom  I  love — 
Who  chose  me — whom  I  chose — to  whom  I  pledged 
A  woman's  truth.     And  that  is  nature  too, 
Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  of  birth. 

ZARCA. 

Unmake  yourself,  then,  from  a  Zincala — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine  ! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white  ; 
Round  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks ; 
Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  twitch  your  robe  : 
Unmake  yourself — doff  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Upon  a  Spaniard's  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o'er  his  words  again) 
Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent,  that  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God. 
Saves  souls  by  confiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar  fumes  of  burning  heretics, 
And  chaffers  with  the  Levite  for  the  gold  ; 
Holds  Gypsies  beasts  unfit  for  sacrifice, 
So  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 
Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  court ! — 
A  conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 

While  half  your  brethren 

FEDALMA. 

I  am  not  so  vile  ! 

It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 
Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights  ; 
It  is  to  him — my  love — the  face  of  day. 

ZARCA. 

What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes, 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him  ? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts, 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  Duke 
And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race, 
And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries  — 
Nay,  not  wed  murder.     Would  you  save  my  life 
Yet  stab  my  purpose  ?  maim  my  every  limb, 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed? 
Is  that  salvation  ?  rather  drink  my  blood. 
That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy  — 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies  — 
Forsakes  her  people,  leaves  their  poverty 
To  join  the  luckier  crowd  that  mocks  their  woes* 
That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 
Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust. 
Such  draughts  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  love! 
And  when  you  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 
Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 
Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changing  wish, 
Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 
Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 
In  your  thin  finery  of  vain  desire. 


94  THE    SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Men  call  his  passion  madness  ;  and  he,  too, 
May  learn  to  think  it  madness  :  'tis  a  thought 
Cf  ducal  sanity. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  he  is  true  ! 

And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 
Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us —  I  seemed  young. 
But  now  I  know  I  am  an  ;  ged  sorrow  — 
My  people's  sorrow.     Father,  since  I  am  yours  — 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 
Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering  — 
Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.     See,  I  kneel : 
I  cannot  will  to  go. 

ZARCA. 

Will  then  to  stay  ! 

Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desire,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 
My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace  :  I  your  father  wait 
That  you  may  lead  us  forth  to  liberty  — 
Restore  me  to  my  tribe —  five  hundred  men 
Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule, 
And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation's  seed. 
Why,  vagabonds  who  clustered  round  one  man, 
Their  voice  of  God,  their  prophet  and  their  king, 
Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 
Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 
To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 
My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea  : 
There  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 
The  wandering  Zfncali  to  that  new  home, 
And  make  a  nation  —  bring  light,  order,  law, 
Instead  of  chaos.     You,  my  only  heir, 
Are  called  to  reign  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 
Now  choose  your  deed  :  to  save  or  to  destroy. 
You,  a  born  Zincala,  you,  fortunate 
Above  your  fellows  —  you  who  hold  a  curse 
Or  blessing  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand  — 


THE     SPANISH    GYPSY.  95 

Say  you  will  loose  that  hand  from  fellowship, 
Let  go  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes, 
Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 
Down  from  the  upward  path  of  light  and  joy, 
Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 
Where  life  is  nought  but  blind  tenacity 
Of  that  which  is.     Say  you  will  curse  your  race  ! 

FED  ALMA  (rising  and  stretching  out  her  arms  in  deprecation). 

No,  no  —  I  will  not  say  it  —  I  will  go ! 
Father,  I  choose  !     I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 
This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours  : 
It  is  a  part  of  me —  a  wakened  thought 
That,  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  me, 
And  grows  into  a  doom.     O  mother  life, 
That  seemed  to  nourish  me  so  tenderly, 
Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  me  to  the  fire, 
Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men's  hopes, 
And  pledged  me  to  redeem  ! — I'll  pay  the  debt 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.     I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss — my  heart  has  grown  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.     Father,  I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.     Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  nought  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men — of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

{She  sinks  on  a  seat  and  begins  to  take  off  her  jewels.) 

Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

{She  pauses,  turning  to  ZARCA.) 

O  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 

Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 

When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Africa  ? 

Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 

A  conscious  woe  ?     Then — is  it  worth  the  pains? 

Were  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 

To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  aU- 

So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 


90  THE     SPANISH     GV,  31', 

To  misery  yet  unwrought  ?    My  soul  is  faint- 
Will  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good? 

ZARCA. 

Nay,  never  falter  :  no  great  deed  is  done 
By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 
No  good  is  certain,  but  the  steadfast  mind, 
The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good: 
'Tis  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 
A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 
The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 
Is  to  have  been  a  hero.     Say  we  fail ! — 
We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world, 
And  leave  our  spirit  in  our  children's  breasts. 

FEDALMA  (unclasping  her  jewelled  belt,  and  throwing  it  down). 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !     I  will  not  count 
On  aught  but  being  faithful.     I  will  take 
This  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 
I  will  not  be  half-hearted  :  never  yet 
Fedalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  soul. 
Die,  my  young  joy — die,  all  my  hungry  hopes — 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curses.     Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness — feeds  on  graves* 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  base  joy. 
The  saints  were  cowards  who  stood  by  to  see 
Christ  crucified  :  they  should  have  flung  themselves 
Upon  the  Roman  spears,  and  died  in  vain — 
The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vain — for  love 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world  ! 
That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.     I  will  wed 
The  curse  that  blights  my  people.     Father,  come  ! 

ZARCA. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease 
To  help  each  other.     You,  if  you  are  false 
To  that  first  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 
But  write  now  to  the  Spaniard  :  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came  ;  that  you  obeyed 
The  fate  which  made  you  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  cluke  and  Christian  knig'ht 
He  must  not  think 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY,  97 

FEDALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  write,  but  he — 
Oh,  he  would  know  it — he  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  be  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

(She  writes.) 

Silva,  sole  love — fa  came — my  father  came. 
I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 

Who  means  to  be  the  Saviour  of  our  tribe. 
He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  his  great  end. 

To  live?  nay,  die  for  it.     Fedalma  dies 
In  leaving  Silva  :  all  that  lives  henceforth 
Is  the  Poor  Zincala. 

(She  rues.) 

Father,  now  I  go 
To  wed  my  people's  lot. 

ZARCA. 

To  wed  a  crown. 

Our  people's  lowly  lot  we  will  make  royal — 
Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 
Held  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 
That  we  shall  leave  behind  us.     Come,  my  Queen  I 

FEDALMA. 

Stay,  my  betrothal  ring  ! — one  kiss — farewell ! 
O  love,  you  were  my  crown.  No  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorns  on  my  poor  woman's  brow. 

BOOK  II. 

SILVA  was  marching  homeward  while  the  moon 
Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 
Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pray. 
The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large, 
Bending  in  slow  procession  ;  in  the  east 
Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills, 
Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 
Glowed  Venus  all  unquenched.     Silva,  in  haste, 
Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 
To  quick  and  quicker  march  :  he  had  delight 
In  forward  stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 
That  travelled  on  the  armor  of  the  van. 


98  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound :  in  all  that  told 

Of  hurrying  movement  to  o'ertake  his  thought 

Already  in  Bedmar,  close  to  Fedahna, 

Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed, 

Defying  Father  Isidor.     His  glance 

Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 

Firm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed, 

Crisp-curled  and  comfortably  secular, 

Right  in  the  front  of  him.     But  by  degrees 

Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 

That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain, 

The  light  was  changing,  and  the  watch  intense 

Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering : 

The  sharp  white  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rocks 

Carrying  the  shadows  :  beauteous  Night  lay  dead 

Under  the  pall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 

Sickened  and  shrank.     The  troop  was  winding  now 

Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 

Seemed  like  an  opened  gate — to  Silva  seemed 

An  outer  gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 

They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmdr. 

Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose, 

One  instant  dark  upon  the  banner  pale 

Of  rock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 

With  hat  and  plume  high-shaken — ominous. 

Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 

Held  not  this  messenger.     A  minute  more — 

It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 

Reining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 

Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt — 

As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die, 

And  brought  the  news  to  him  whom  death  had  robbed 

Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst — the  town 

Stormed  by  the  infidel — or,  could  it  be 

Fedalma  dragged  ? — no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 

But  with  a  marble  face,  he  only  said, 

"  What  evil,  Alvar  ?  " 

"  What  this  paper  speaks." 
It  was  Fedalma's  letter  folded  close 
And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.     But  his  friend 
Keeping  it  still  sharp-pinched  against  his  breast, 

"  It  will  smite  hard  :  a  private  grief. 
I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 
Let  us  ride  on — we  use  the  moments  best, 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  99 

Reaching  the  town  with  speed.     The  smaller  ill 

Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisor  ers  have  escaped." 

No  more.     Give  me  the  paper — nay,  I  know — 

Twill  make  no  difference.    Bid  them  march  on  faster." 

Silva  pushed  forward — held  the  paper  crushed 

Close  in  his  right.     "  They  have  imprisoned  her,** 

He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones, 

Like  a  dream-speech  of  slumbering  revenge. 

No — when  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  was  gone.** 

Swift  as  the  right  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 

Made  Silva  read  the  letter.     She  was  gone  ! 

But  not  into  locked  darkness — only  gone 

Into  free  air — where  he  might  find  her  yet 

The  bitter  loss  had  triumph  in  it — what! 

They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  holy  claws, 

The  Prior's  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 

Was  snatched  from  off  his  lips.     This  misery 

Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone  ! 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.     Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where  dimness  yet 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope  : 
Fedalma  still  was  there — he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 
Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  are  gone  ? 
Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day, 
Opens  the  chamber  door  and  almost  smiles — 
Then  sees  the  sunbeams  pierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.     So  Silva's  joy, 
Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 
Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words, 
And,  numbing  thoughts  with  vague  illusion,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 
But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled. 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down — 
Mute  witnesses — sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary, 
Wounding  him  like  a  word.     O  hateful  light  ! 
It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  all  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all — save  where  old  Inez  lay 


1 KE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary, 

Making  its  shadow  tremble  with  her  fear. 

And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved  ; 

It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 

He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  no  sign 

But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there, 

She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 

He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow'rd  the  stairs, 

Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  cistus  flowers 

Crushed  by  large  feet  ;  but  on  one  shady  spot 

Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home, 

He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small, 

So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints, 

Searched  in  the  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 

For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove  ; 

But  not  Fedalma's.     It  was  Juan's  glove, 

Tasseled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 

A  gift  of  dames.     Then  Juan,  too,  was  gone  ? 

Full-mouthed  conjecture,  hurrying  through  the  town, 

Had  spread  the  tale  already  ;  it  was  he 

That  helped  the  Gypsies'  flight.     He  talked  and  sang 

Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 

He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan  ; 

Had  lingered  out  by  moonlight,  had  been  seen 

Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  walls, 

Humming  his  ditties.     So  Don  Alvar  told, 

Conveying  outside  rumor.     But  the  Duke, 

Making  of  haughtiness  a  visor  closed, 

Would  show  no  agitated  front  in  quest 

Of  small  disclosures.     What  her  writing  bore 

Had  been  enough.     He  knew  that  she  was  gone, 

Knew  why. 

"  The  Duke,"  some  said,  "  will  send  a  force, 
Retake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride." 
But  others,  winking,  "  Nay,  her  wedding  dress 
Would  be  the  san-bfttito.     'Tis  a  fight 
Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.     Wise  bets  will  choose 

The  churchman  ;  he's  the  iron,  and  the  Duke " 

"  Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery,"  said  mine  host, 
Softening  the  sarcasm  with  a  bland  regret. 
There  was  the  thread  *hat  in  the  new-made  knot 
Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 
Vexed  most  the  sense  or  Silva,  in  these  hours 
Of  fresh  and  angry  pain — there,  in  that  fight 


THE     SPANISH    GYPSY.  fO 

Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical, 
His  shield  invisible  terrors — against  a  foe 
Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 
Ordaining  plagues.     All  else,  Fedalma's  flight, 
The  father's  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 
Were  momentary  crosses,  hindrances 
A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.     This  Chief 
Might  still  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 
A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 
Gypsy  prosperity,  give  him  more  power 
Over  his  tribe  than  any  fatherhood  ; 
Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  plead  loud 
For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved—- 
Her love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 
The  Gypsy  chieftain  had  foreseen  a  price 
That  would  be  paid  him  for  his  daughter's  dower- 
Might  soon  give  signs.     Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 
Face  upward.     Silva  here  felt  strong,  and  smiled. 
What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command  ? 
He  only  helped  the  Queen,  because  he  chose  ; 
Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor; 
Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it — if  he  would  : 
Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness  but  from  strength 
Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  birthright  well. 
For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emperors, 
Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity, 
And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch 
Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 
Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 
Save  in  the  plastic  souls  of  other  men. 
Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 
(A  high-taught  speculative  noble  else), 
Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 
If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 
Not  to  be  courteous  to  so  poor  a  knave 
As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 
Of  birth  and  dues  of  rank  ;  but  cross  his  will, 
The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 
As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 
Than  a  mere  mortal  man's.     And  now  that  will 
Had  met  a  stronger  adversary — strong 
As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 
While  they  clutch  us,  subtly  as  poisoned  air, 
In  deep-laid  fibres  of  inherited  fear 
That  lie  bek>«v  all  cnura?? 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Silva  said, 

She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition — the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  tier  with  a  hideous  grasp 
Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  grasp 
As  in  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  fore  -  unrelenting,  locked, 
Not  to  be  loosened  savt  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.     Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so  :  his  phial  dropped  the  oil 
To  catch  the  air-borne  notes  of  idle  slander: 
He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 
Round  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths  of  spring, 
With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspicion. 
What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy  ?  a  mere  gate 
I'll  find  the  key  for.     The  one  barrier, 
The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 
Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imperious  saint, 
He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myself. 
And  he  can  work  his  will :  I  have  no  help 
Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 
Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 
Ay,  secrecy,  and  disobedience — these 
No  tyranny  can  master.     Disobey ! 
You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 
Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 
Where  he  is  not  supreme.     The  Prior  shall  know  it! 
His  will  shall  breed  resistance :  he  shall  do 
The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 
By  hardening  my  resolve." 

But  'neath  this  speech — 
Defiant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
Of  many-blended  consciousness — there  breathed 
Murmurs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one  ;  denies  and  yet  believes  ; 
Protests  with  passion,  "  This  is  natural" — 
Yet  owns  the  other  still  were  truer,  better, 
Could  nature  follow  it  :  a  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.     With  all  its  outflung  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  before  the  steadfast  man 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  realm 
Where  the  rule  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  10$ 

Then  that  reluctant  homage  stirred  new  hate, 
And  gave  rebellion  an  intenser  will. 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 

Slackened  ;  and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs^ 

Hunger  of  love.     Debate  was  swept  right  down 

By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

A  little  loss  !  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being! 

But  in  the  candor  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love  ;  and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hop    were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.     All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendor  was  but  the  herald  trumpet-note 

Of  her  imperial  coming,  penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem, 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.     Fedalma  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it  ;  all  goodness  credible, 

Because  of  that  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  the  passionate  love 

Which  urged  his  life  tow'rd  hers,  like  urgent  floods 

That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 

Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 

Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 

Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was, 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame. 

And  she  was  gone.     Well,  goddesses  will  go  ; 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 

Shaped  just  like  goddesses — O  hateful  sweet! 

O  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 

With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine  ! 

The  noble's  birthright  of  miraculous  will 

Turning  I  would  to  must  be,  spurning  all 

Offered  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose, 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 

The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 

Which  came  not  first  but  as  all-conquering  last 

Great  Love  has  many  attributes,  and  shrines 

For  varied  worship,  but  his  force  divine 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Shows  most  its  many-named  fulness  in  the  man 
Whose  nature  multitudinously  mixed — 
Each  ardent  impulse  grappling  with  a  thought- 
Resists  all  easy  gladness,  all  content 
Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  questioning  soul 
Flooded  with  consciousness  of  good  that  is 
Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.     So  it  was 
In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there, 
Not  as  a  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 
Who  quells  a  tumult  in  a  day  of  dread, 
A  welcomed  despot. 

O  all  comforters, 

All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy, 
Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  presence  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass  ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness  ;  odors  soft- 
Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within,  'mid  stirrings  vague 
Of  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresh  ; 
All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  sunset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song  :  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake — 
All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 
All  powers  of  loving.     Subtle  nature's  hand 
Waked  with  a  touch  the  far-linked  harmonies 
Tn  her  own  manifold  work.     Fedalma  there, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  fine 
For  full  contentment  ;  and  young  melancholy, 
Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 
Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness. 
The  happiness  was  gone  ! 

He  sat  alone 

Hating  companionship  that  was  not  hers  ; 
Felt  bruised  with  hopeless  longing  ;  drank, 
Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been ; 
Weary  with  anger  and  a  strained  resolve, 
Sought  passive  happiness  in  waking  dreams. 
It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors, 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  105 

Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 
Sharing  his  hoary  and  beneficent  life — 
Men  who  sat  throned  among  the  multitudes — 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 
Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange  trees  ;  when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 

The  world  is  great ;  the  birds  all  fly  from  met 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach  ;  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great  ;  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still, 
But  it  rose  higher  ;  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great  j  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from  j  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart ;  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great ;  the  people  laugh  aad  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday  ;  how  fast  they  walk  ! 
I'm  lame,  they  push  me  ;  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

Twas  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 

Pouring  melodious  pain  to  cheat  the  hour 

For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 

Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 

The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 

Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 

Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 

But  when  the  voice  had  ceased  he  longed  for  it, 

And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 

When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 

And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.     Silva  then 

Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  perforco 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 

That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world  : 

A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 

A  viol — yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 

This  morning  entinji  roots  by  the  gateway — saw 


106  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 
And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  finds  it  writ 
Full  in  the  inner  record.     Hark,  again  ! 
The  voice  and  viol.     Silva  called  his  thought 
To  guide  his  ear  and  track  the  travelling  sound. 

O  bird  that  used  to  press 
Thy  head  against  my  cheek 
With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 

And  ask  a  tender  "yes  " — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird! 

O  tender  downy  breast 

And  warmly  beating  heart, 

That  beating  seemed  a  part 
Of  me  who  gave  it  rest — 

Ay  de  miy  my  bird ! 

The  western  court !     The  singer  might  be  seen 

From  the  upper  gallery  :  quick  the  Duke  was  there 

Looking  upon  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 

Men  eased  of  armor,  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

Gambling  by  snatches  ;  shepherds  from  the  hills 

Who   brought   their   bleating    friends   for   slaughter ; 

grooms 

Shouldering  loose  harness  ;  leather-aproned  smiths, 
Traders  with  wares,  green-suited  serving-men, 
Made  round  audience  ;  and  in  their  midst 
Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song, 
Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.     But  the  song 
Was  strangely  'companied  by  Roldan's  play 
With  the  swift  gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crushed 
By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 
Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  o'erturned  the  pence^ 
Making  mistake  by  rule.     Silva  had  thought 
To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 
With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 
In  Pablo's  voice  ;  had  meant  to  give  command 
For  the  boy's  presence  ;  but  this  company, 
This  mountebank  and  monkey,  must  be — stay ! 
Not  be  excepted — must  be  ordered  too 
Into  his  private  presence  ;  they  had  brought 
Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 
To  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 
And  what  it  imaged.     A  ready  shapen  tool ! 


THE    SPANISH    GVP5Y.  IOJ 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies'  refuge  so  th.it  none  beside 

Might  learn  it.     And  this  juggler  could  be  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors — for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys  ? — could  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To  please  the  Duke  with  song.    Without  such  chance— 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 

Who  could  go  scatheless,  come  back  for  his  pay 

And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighborhood — 

Without  such  chance  as  this  poor  juggler  brought, 

Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Roldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.     All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the  Dnk« 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 

His  lacking  happiness  as  was  the  right 

Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure, 

And  wore  nought  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 

In  truth,  at  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing, 

But,  while  he  sang,  called  Roldan  wide  apart, 

And  told  him  of  a  mission  secret,  brief — 

A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much  gold, 

But,  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  pay. 

Roldan  was  ready  ;  "  wished  above  all  for  gold 

And  never  wished  to  speak  ;  he  had  worked  enough 

At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes  ; 

Thought  it  was  others  turn  to  play  the  fool. 

Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs, 

Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 

Give  him  his  orders." 

They  were  given  straight ; 
Gold  for  a  journey  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates,  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.     The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Duke's  command, 
And  must  have  nought  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.     Once  the  quest  performed^ 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Safe  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth 


108  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 
In  fair  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 
"  Good  !  Good  !  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo! 
And  Roldan  was  the  man  !  But  Annibal — 
A  monkey  like  no  other,  though  morose 
In  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks — 
'Twere  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  still 
To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 
And  free  to  slip  away.     The  boy  was  wild 
And  shy  as  mountain  kid  ;  once  hid  himself 
And  tried  to  run  away  ;  and  Annibal, 
Who  always  took  the  lad's  side  (he  was  small, 
And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs, 
Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 
For  being  bigger) — Annibal  went  too. 
Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 
Both  boy  and  monkey — and  'twas  property, 
The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Annibal. 
He  didn't  choose  another  man  should  beat 
His  boy  and  monkey.     If  they  ran  away 
Some  man  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  hinv  ilf 
And  say  they  were  his  goods — he'd  taught  then;  *-no ', 
He,  Roldan,  had  no  mind  another  man 
Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 
Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 
Calling  himself  a  juggler " 

But  the  Duke, 

Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  c*ase ; 
Bade  Roldan  quit  all  fears — the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
In  keeping  with  the  great  physician  there, 
The  Duke's  most  special  confidant  and  friend, 
One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 
The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Roldan  must  go — spend  no  more  words — but  go. 

The  Astrologer  s  Study. 

A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 
And  the  bright  disc  of  royal  Jupiter, 
lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness  ;  here  and  there 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  109 

Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 

Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 

Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 

Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breath 

Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought  ; 

Eye-brows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate  ; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled  ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 

So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 

Full-vowelled,  long  descended,  pregnant — rich 

With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives. 

Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 

Purs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast, 

A  loud  knock.  "  Forward  !  "  in  clear  vocal  ring. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal ; 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark, 

DON  SILVA. 
You  slept,  Sephardo.     I  am  come  too  soon. 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 
I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night, 
So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep. 
But  who  are  these  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitality.     Their  owner  comes 
Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.     I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 
Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 

SEPHARDO. 
Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal  ? 

DON   SILVA. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  you  will  be  their  guardian.     I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.     The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  wondrously. 


HO  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

SEPHARDO. 

They  are  welcome  both. 
Their  names  are ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Pablo,  this — this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  no  warrior. 

SEPHARDO. 

We'll  make  peace. 

Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend's  chain. 
Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.     Here  Pablo,  thou— 
Close  to  my  chair.     Now  Annibal  shall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scimiter, 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh 

With  silent  protest ;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

Twixt  "  is  "  and  "  is  not "  ;  let  his  chain  be  loosed  j 

By  sage  Sephardo's  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Then  trembles  out  of  his  neutrality, 

Looks  up  and  leaps  into  Sephardo's  lap, 

And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 

Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  on  the  floor.] 

SEPHARDO. 
See,  he  declares  we  are  at  enmity ! 

DON  SILVA. 
No  brother  sage  had  re?d  your  nature  faster. 

SEPHARDO. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.     Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his: 
Can  we  divine  their  world  ? — the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 
Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp- edged  death, 
Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed  ? 
Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech, 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

DON  SILVA. 
Ah,  you  denounce  my  sport  w'th  hawk  and  hound. 


iHE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  Ill 

I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 
As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors — 
Hawking  and  hunting  !     You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sense 
And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  than  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too— 

Your  animals.     Your  judgment  limps,  Sephardo: 
Death  is  the  king  of  this  world  ;  'tis  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.     Cries  of  pain 
Are  music  for  his  banquet ;  and  the  masque — 
The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
The  Holy  Inquisition. 

SEPHARDO. 

Ay,  anon 

I  may  chime  in  with  you.     But  not  the  less 
My  judgment  has  firm  feet.      Though  death  were  king, 
And  cruelty  his  right-hand  minister, 
Pity  insurgent  in  some  human  breasts 
Makes  spiritual  empire,  reigns  supreme 
As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 
Your  small  physician,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 
A  petty  morsel  for  a  healthy  shark, 
Will  worship  mercy  thronged  within  his  soul 
Though  all  the  luminous  angels  of  the  stars 
Burst  into  cruel  chorus  on  his  ear, 
Singing,  "  We  know  no  mercy."     He  would  cry, 
:  I  know  it  "  still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird 
And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 
Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 
For  rational  torturers.     There  I  stand  firm. 
But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 
Out  of  your  note. 

DON  SILVA. 
No,  no,  I  follow  you. 


112  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 

In  spite  of .     Yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 

I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 
Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

SEPHARDO. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.     The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.      For  my  brother  sage, 
He'll  never  heed  us  ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 
Emitting  doubtful  noises.     Pray,  my  lord, 
Unlade  what  burdens  you  :  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.     I  have  a  double  want  : 
First  a  confessor — not  a  Catholic ; 
A  heart  without  a  livery — naked  manhood. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank  ;  there's  no  such  thing 
As  naked  manhood.     If  the  stars  look  down 
On  any  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 
Is  to  judge  all  things  without  preference, 
He  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  man. 
While  my  htart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery — 
My  people's  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 
Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.     I  will  not  say 
Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  Jew  or  Gentile : 
That  suits  the  rich  marranos  ;  but  to  me 
My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 
So  much  for  frankness'  sake.     But  let  that  pass. 
'Tis  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic 
But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 
Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oft  you  sing 

Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes'  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  the  wide  ocean.     Now  you  league  yoursetf 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  I IJ 

Made,  say  you — how  ? — by  God  or  Demiurge, 
By  spirit  or  flesh — I  care  not !     Love  was  made 
Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  must  break 

them. 

I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 
And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth, 
Of  race  and  livery.     Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 
She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.     And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me — know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes,  I  know. 

Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech, 
Pressing  a  bruise.     I  loved  her  well,  my  lord  : 
A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  were  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She'd  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

DON  SILVA. 

Was  f  say  not  was,  Sephardo  !     She  still  lives — 
Is,  and  is  mine  ;  and  I  will  not  renounce 
What  heaven,  nay,  what  she  gave  me.     I  will  sin, 
If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 
The  i'ault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 
The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 
Fights  manacled  with  falsehood,  and  all  good 
Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  ill. 

(DON  SILVA  pauses.     SEPHARDO  is  silent.) 
Sephardo,  speak  \  am  I  not  justified  ? 
You  taught  my  mind  to  use  the  wing  that  soars 
Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd  : 
Now,  when  I  heed  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb, 

SEPHARDO. 

Patience  !  Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles  ;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 
Science  must  be  their  wishing-cap  ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.     No,  my  lord ! 
I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 
This  much  I  can  divine  :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love — to  make  a  secret  search. 


114  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

DON  SILVA. 

That  is  begun  already  :  a  messenger 
Unknown  to  all  has  been  despatched  this  night* 
But  forecast  must  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 
Ready  for  service  when  my  scout  returns, 
Bringing  the  invisible  thread  to  guide  my  steps 
Toward  that  lost  self  my  life  is  aching  with. 
Sephardo,  I  will  go  :  and  1  must  go 
Unseen  by  all  save  you  ;  though,  at  our  need, 
We  may  trust  Alvar. 

SEPHARDO. 

A  grave  task,  my  lord. 
Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  alone  and  not  the  means  ? 
Resolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues  :  one, 
Which  served  the  gypsies'  flight  to  me  is  closed  ; 
Our  bands  must  watch  the  outlet,  now  betrayed 
To  cunning  enemies.     Remains  one  other, 
Known  to  no  man  save  me  ;  a  secret  left 
As  heirloom  in  our  house  ;  a  secret  safe 
Even  from  him — from  Father  Isidor. 
'Tis  he  who  forces  me  to  use  it — he  ; 
All's  virtue  that  cheats  bloodhounds.     Hear, 
Given  my  scout  returns,  and  brings  me  news 
I  can  straight  act  on  I  shall  want  your  aid. 
The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 
Where,  by  my  charter,  you  rule  absolute. 
I  shall  feign  illness  ;  you  with  mystic  air 
Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 
(Nay  I  am  ill — my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 
I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 
On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning, 
Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 
And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 
And  perhaps  from  Alvar.     So  I  shall  escape 
Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 
To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. 
No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last ; 
I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  11$ 

Which  no  man  can  undo.     Now  you  know  all 
Say,  can  I  count  on  you  > 

SEPHARDO. 

For  faithfulness 

In  aught  that  I  may  promise,  yes,  my  lord. 
But — for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness — this  warning. 
I  will  betray  nought  for  your  personal  harm  ; 
I  love  you.     But  note  this — I  am  a  Jew; 
And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 
I'll  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian's  trust 
Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  Jews. 
Shall  cruelty  crowned — wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 
Who  gives  it  victory — upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  faithfulness  ?     I  love  you  well. 
You  are  my  friend.     But  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 
Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 
There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  make  you  traitor,  when  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  than  a  Jew 

DON  SILVA. 

What  need 

To  urge  that  now,  Sephardo  ?     I  am  one 
Of  many  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 
The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 
Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 
Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 
By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.     And  now — 
Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 
Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 
Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 
Flashed  from  a  mother's  eye,  you  choose  this  time 
To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 
Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 
From  under  hard-taught  reason  ?     Wondrous  friend! 
My  uncle  Isidor's  echo,  mocking  me, 
From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know, 
That  I'm  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  duke  I 
The  consequence  ?     Why,  that  I  know.     It  lies 
In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 
The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 
Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 


116  TIIS    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

What  question  was  there  'twixt  us  two,  of  angfct 
That  makes  division  ?    When  I  come  to  you 
I  come  for  other  doctrine  than  the  Prior's. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  you  are  o'erwrought  by  pain.     My 
That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 
Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 
Your  mind  brings  with  it.     I  but  answered  you 
With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 
In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forefend 
A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood  ; 
Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  brand 
Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 
Superfluous  nicety — the  student's  trick, 
Who  will  not  drink  until  he  can  define 
What  water  is  and  is  not.     But  enough. 
My  will  to  serve  you  now  knows  no  division 
Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear. 
There's  danger  in  this  quest — name,  honor,  life — 
My  lord,  the  stake  is  great,  and  are  you  sure 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  am  sure  of  nought  but  this,  Sephardo, 
That  I  will  go.     Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.     There's  nought  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.     Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lands  'mids  pestilence. 
Wisdom  would  end  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 
But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 
And  I  have  chosen  as  the  lion  robbed 
Chooses  to  turn  upon  the  ravisher. 
If  love  were  slack,  the  Prior's  imperious  will 
Would  move  it  to  outmatch  him.     But,  Sephardo, 
Were  all  else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 
My  soul  is  one  great  hunger — I  must  see  her. 
Now  you  are  smiling.     Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  up  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 
You  smile  at  my  soul's  hunger. 

SEPHARDO. 

Science  smiles 


And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord, 
When  thought  weds  fact — when  maiden  prophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 
I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  grief, 
My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts  ;  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe, 
And  seizing  some  fine  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

DON  SILVA. 

And  your  thought  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

DON  SILVA. 
Reach  it  me  now. 

SEPHARDO. 

By  your  leave,  Annibal. 

(He  places  ANNIBAL  on  PABLO'S  lap  and  rises.  The  boy 
moves  without  waking,  and  his  head  falls  on  the  opposite  side. 
SEPHARDO  fetches  a  cushion  and  lays  PABLO'S  head  gently 
down  upon  it,  then  goes  to  reach  the  parchment  from  a  cab- 
inet. ANNIBAL,  having  waked  up  in  alarm,  shuts  his  eye* 
quickly  again  and  pretends  to  sleep.) 

DON  SILVA. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 
Reading  afresh  the  records  of  the  sky, 
You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 
Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  all  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine  skins  do, 
For  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  them  ; 
And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  key 
To  fixed  prediction. 

SEPHARDO   (returning    with    the  parchment   and  reseating 
himself}. 

True  ;  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.     But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
In  meditated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God's  scroll. 
I  say — nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  but  wise  books 
For  half  the  truths  they  hold  are  honored  tomba— 


Il8  THE   SPANISH   GYPST. 

Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 

Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 

To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 

Beyond  our  reckoning.     Who  will  pretend 

To  tell  the  adventures  of  each  single  fish 

Within  the  Syrian  Sea  ?     Show  me  a  fish, 

I'll  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured, 

What  would  have  devoured  him — but  for  one  Bias 

Who  netted  him  instead  ;  nay,  could  I  tell 

That  had  Bias  missed  him,  he  would  not  have  died 

Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 

Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea- scavenger  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 
I  note  you  merciful  men  :  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.     Follows  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

By  how  much,  then,  the  fortunes  of  a  man 

Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 

Beyond  a  tunny's,  what  our  science  tells 

Of  the  star's  influence  hath  contingency 

In  special  issues.     Thus,  the  loadstone  drawt, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss ; 

But  garlic  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 

Lies  in  suspense  ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlic  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 

Not  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore's  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 

What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods 

The  aspect  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 

With  your  incorporate  soul.     Aught  more  than  tkis 

Is  vulgar  doctrine.     For  the  ambient, 

Though  a  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute, 

But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 

From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 

In  proximate  motion. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  you  smiled  just'now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact — with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  119 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  not  so  ;  I  smiled, 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.     Here  is  your  horoscope : 
The  aspects  of  the  Moon  with  Mars  conjunct, 
Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 
Of  the  ascendant,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 

DON  SILV ^impatiently). 
What  did  I  say  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

You  spoke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  you  at  C6rdova, 
The  lessons  on  the  noun  and  verb  were  drowned 
With  sudden  stream  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.     Always  in  ].that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o'erendowed  with  opposites 
Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 
The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 
Potent  in  action,  suffer  in  light  malign 
From  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 
With  power  ancestral.     So.  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing  ;  so  I  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men, 
Whereof  no  sage's  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fruitful  result,  O  sage ! 
Certain  uncertainty. 

SEPHARDO. 

Yea,  a  result 

Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Would  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 
I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord,, 


120  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much, 
Puts  harness  on  a  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.     Be  warned. 
Resolve  with  you  is  a  fire-breathing  steed, 
But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 
Rising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honor. 
Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope  : 

{Laying  the  horoscope  before  DON  SILVA.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

DON    SILVA  {pushing  away  the  horoscope,    rising  and  tunn- 
ing to  look  out  at  the  open  window}. 
No! 

No  morrow  e'er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 
Not  to  renounce  her.     Risks  !  I  know  them  all 
I've  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 
I've  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  handle  bolts.     Oh,  I'm  too  sane  ! 
I  see  the  Prior's  nets.     He  does  my  deed  ; 
For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this — 
That  I  must  find  her  by  some  hidden  means. 

(He  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  of  SEPH  ARDO.) 
One  word,  Sephardo — leave  that  horoscope, 
Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself, 
And  give  me  promise.     Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal  ?     Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew. 
And  trusted  in  his  counsel.     Yon  will  help  me  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  you.     Israel 
Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body's  heart : 
Thus  writes  our  poet  Jehuda.     I  will  act 
So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  me 
'  Your  Israel  is  nought,"  and  make  my  deeds 
The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 
I  will  not  fail  you,  save — you  know  the  terms : 
I  am  a  Jew,  and  not  that  infamous  life 
That  takes  on  bastardy,  will  know  no  father, 
So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 
You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 
If  Israel  needed  it. 


THE    SPAKiGlI    G-iT-3:'  f( 

DON  SILVA. 
I  fear  not  that. 

I  am  no  fri»nd  of  fines  and  banishment, 
Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape, 
And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  still. 
I  take  your  terms,  and  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

"Pis  hard  Roman  love, 

That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master's  breast  to  run  upon. 
But  you  will  have  it  so.     Love  shall  obey. 

SILVA  turns  to  the  window  again,  and  is  silent  for  of* 
moments,  looking  at  the  sky.) 

DON  SILVA. 

See  now,  Sephardo,  you  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.     Confess, 
The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command, 
Resign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more) — 
Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

Will  it,  though,  my  lord  ? 
DON  SILVA. 
I  speak  not  of  the  fact  but  of  the  right 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  you  said  but  now  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.     If  conscience  has  two  courts 
With  differing  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal  ? 
Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 
The  Highest  speaks  through  all  our  people's  voice, 
Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities  ; 
Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 
Of  inward  certitude. 

DON  SILVA. 

My  love  for  her 
Makes  highes;  law,  mv.ct  be  the  voice  of  God- 


1»2  THE    SPANISH    CYirSlf. 

SEPHARDO. 

I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excuse, 
And  plead  as  in  some  court  where  Spanish  knights 
Are  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love, 

DON  SILVA. 

'Twas  momentary.     I  shall  dare  it  all. 
How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me, 
And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence  ! 
Were  he  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fumess  of  knowledge.     Are  you  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  shrinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore  ? 
If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favoring  periods  :  you  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  not  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts, — 
As  secret  journeys  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Oh,  my  lord,  the  stars 

Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 
I  said  before  they  are  not  absolute, 
And  tell  no  fortunes.     I  adhere  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  barren  science  I 

Some  argue  now  'tis  folly.     'Twere  as  well 
Be  of  their  mind.     If  those  bright  stars  had  will- 
But  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 
Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 
With  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.     I  doubt  that  horoscope. 

(DoN  SILVA  turns  from  the  window  and  reseats  himself  opposite 

SEPHARDO). 

I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 
No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Utter  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 
I'll  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

SEPHARDO. 

May  they  be  fair  !     No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 
'Tis  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth, 
And  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  "  ifs.'* 

DON  SILVA. 

I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  can  pinch 
With  confident  selection  these  few  grains, 
And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  dust 
Of  crumbling  error.     Surely  such  thought  creeps. 
With  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 
Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 
Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Lo  !  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  God's  outlaws,  and  defy 
All  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil  ;  think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  see  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell, 
And  sin  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 

DON  SILVA. 

Read  not  my  words  with  malice.     I  but  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

SEPHARDO. 

The  Unnameable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 
To  suit  hidalgos'  temper.     I  abide 
By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 
Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 
For  Truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  living  child 
Born  of  two  parents  :  if  the  parents  part 
And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live? 
Or,  I  will  rather  say  :     Two  angels  guide 
The  path  of  man,  both  aged  an  yet  young, 
As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  yean. 
On  one  he  leans  :  some  call  her  Memory, 
And  some  Tradition  ;  and  her  voice  is  sweet, 
With  deep  mysterious  accords:  the  other, 


1*4  THK    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 

A  light  divine  and  searching  on  the  earth, 

Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.     Memory  yields, 

Yet  clings  with  loving  cheek,  and  shines  anew 

Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 

Our  angel  Reason  holds.     We  had  not  walked 

But  for  Tradition  ;  we  walk  evermore 

To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 

Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.     I  hold  less 

Than  Aben-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 

Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldsean  plains  ; 

The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 

For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye, 

And  the  weak  organ  fails.     I  may  see  ill ; 

But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 

Which  fulfills  vision  with  obedience. 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels  :  truth  is  oft 

Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 

Built  half  of  error;  and  the  eye's  defect 

May  breed  too  much  denial.     But,  my  lord, 

I  weary  your  sick  soul.     Go  now  with  me 

Into  the  turret.     We  will  watch  the  spheres, 

And  see  the  constellations  bend  and  plunge 

Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 

Hold  them  no  more.     We'll  quit  ourselves  and  be 

The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 

And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 

On  some  great  quest  we  know  not. 

DON  SILVA. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching  too,  and  thought  of  her 
Sways  me,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 
Of  pure  allegiance. 

SEPHARDO. 

That  is  love's  perfection  — 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.     Now  we  will  mount. 

4  large  hall  in  the  castle,  of  Moorish  architecture.  On  the 
side  where  the  windows  are,  an  outer  gallery.  Pages  and 
other  young  gentlemen  attached  to  DON  SILVA'S  household, 
gathered  chiefly  at  one  end  of  the  hall.  Some  are  moving 
about  ;  others  »re  lounging  on  t'le  carved  benches ;  others, 
half-strrtchfd  on  pieces  of  matting  and  carpet,  are  gambling. 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  125 

ARIAS,  a  stripling  of  fifteen,  sings  by  snatches  in  a  boyish 
treble,  as  he  walks  up  and  down,  and  tosses  back  the  nuts 
which  another  youth  flings  toward  him.  In  the  middle  DON 
AMADOR,  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  soldier,  in  a  handsome  uni- 
form, sits  in  a  marble  red-cushioned  chair,  with  a  large 
book  spread  out  on  his  knees,  from  which  he  is  reading 
aloud,  while  his  voice  is  half-drowned  by  the  talk  that  is  go- 
ing on  around  him,  first  one  voice  and  then  another  surging 
above  the  hum. 

ARIAS  (singing]. 
There  was  a  holy  hermit 

Who  counted  all  things  loss 
For  Christ  his  Master's  glory  ; 

He  made  an  ivory  cross. 
And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  wept  his  murdered  Lord, 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron, 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 

Jos6  (from  the  floor). 

I  say,  twenty  cruzados  !  thy  Galician  wit  can  never 
count. 

HERNANDO  (also  from  the  floor). 
And  thy  Sevillian  wit  always  counts  double 
ARIAS  (singing). 

The  tears  that  fell  upon  it, 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rustt 
The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 

Made  writing  in  the  dust. 
The  holy  hermit,  gazing, 

Saw  words  upon  the  ground : 
"  The  sword  be  red  forever 

With  the  blood  of  false  Mahound." 

DON  All  ADOR  (looking  up  from  his  book,  and  raising  his  voice\ 
What,  gentlemen  !     Our  Glorious  Lady  defend  us  ! 

ENRIQUEZ  {from  the  benches). 

Serves  the  infidels  right !  They  have  sold  Christians 
enough  to  people  half  the  towns  in  Paradise.  If  the  Queen, 
now,  had  divided  the  pretty  damsels  of  Malaga  among  the 
Castilians  who  have  been  helping  in  the  holy  war,  and  not 
sent  half  of  them  to  Naples 


136  THE      SPANISH      GYPST. 

ARIAS  (singing  again). 

At  the  battle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Ramiro, 
Help  us,  Allah  !  cried  the  Moslem, 
Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heaven's  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago  I 
FABIAN. 

Oh,  the  very  tail  of  our  chance  has  vanished.  The  royai 
army  is  breaking  up — going  home  for  the  winter.  The 
Grand  Master  sticks  to  his  own  border. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

Straight  out- flushing  like  the  rainbow, 
See  him  come,  celestial  Baron, 
Mounted  knight,  with  red-crossed  banner. 
Plunging  earthward  to  the  battle, 

Glorious  Santiago! 
HURTADO. 

Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by,  you  go  to  the 
valley  of  Never.  We  might  have  done  a  great  feat,  if  the 

Marquis  of  Cadiz 

ARIAS  (sings). 

As  the  flame  before  the  swift  wind, 
See,  he  fires  us,  we  burn  with  him  / 
Flash  our  swords,  dash  Pagans  backward— 
Victory  he  !  pale  fear  is  Allah  / 

God  with  Santiago} 

DON  AMADOR  (raising  his  voice  to  a  cry). 
Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen  ! 

(He  shuts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  with  a  bang  on  the  floor. 
There  is  instant  silence?) 

To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at  Salamanca, 
andean  write  verses  agreeable  to  the  Glorious  Lady,  with  the 
point  of  a  sword  which  have  done  harder  service,  am  read- 
ing aloud  in  a  clerkly  manner  from  a  book  which  hath  been 
culled  from  the  flowers  of  all  books,  to  instruct  you  in  the 
knowledge  befitting  those  who  would  be  knights  and  worthy 
hidalgos  ?  I  had  as  lief  be  reading  in  a  belfry.  And  gamb- 
ling too  !  As  if  it  were  a  time  when  we  needed  not  the  help 
of  God  and  the  saints  !  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour 
ye  might  subdue  your  tongues  to  your  ears,  that  so  your 
tongu^r  miight  learn  somewhat  of  civility  and  modesty. 


THE     SPANISH      GYPSY.  iaf 

Wherefore  am  I  master  of  the  Duke's  retinue,  if  my  voice  is 
to  run  along  like  a  gutter  in  a  storm  ? 

HURTADO  (lifting  up  the  book,  and  respectfully  presenting  it 
to  DON  AMADOR). 

Pardon,  Don  Amador  !  The  air  is  so  commoved  by  your 
voice,  that  it  stirs  our  tongues  in  spite  of  us. 

DON  AMADOR  (reopening  the  book). 

Confess,  now ;  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that  when 
rational  sounds  are  made  for  your  edification,  you  find 
nought  in  it  but  an  occasion  for  purposeless  gabble.  I  will 
report  it  to  the  Duke,  and  the  reading-time  shall  be  doubled, 
and  my  office  of  reader  shall  be  handed  over  to  Fraj 
Domingo. 
( While  DON  AMADOR  had  been  speaking,  DON  SILVA  with 

DON  ALVAR,  has  appeared  walking  in  the  outer  gallery  on 

-which  the  windows  are  opened.') 

ALL  (in  concert). 
No,  no,  no. 

DON  AMADOR. 

Are  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the  wholesome 
extract  from  the  Seven  Parts,  wherein  the  wise  King  Alfonso 
hath  set  down  the  reason  why  knights  should  be  of  gentle 
birth  ?  Will  ye  now  be  silent  ? 

ALL. 
Yes,  silent. 

DON  AMADOR. 

But  when  I  pause,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave  to  speak, 
if  he  hath  aught  pertinent  to  say. 

(Reads.) 

"  And  this  nobility  cometh  in  three  ways  ;  first,  by  lin- 
eage, secondly,  by  science,  and  thirdly,  by  valor  and  worthy 
behavior.  Now,  although  they  who  gain  nobility  through 
science  or  good  deeds  are  rightfully  called  noble  and  gentle; 
nevertheless,  they  are  with  the  highest  fitness  so  called  who 
are  noble  by  ancient  lineage,  and  lead  a  worthy  life  as  by 
inheritance  from  afar  ;  and  hence  are  more  bound  and  con- 
strained to  act  well,  and  guard  themselves  from  error  and 
wrong-doing  ;  for  in  their  case  it  is  more  true  that  by  evil- 
doing  they  bring  injury  and  shame  not  only  on  themselves 
but  also  on  those  from  whom  they  are  derived  " 


128  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

DON  AM  A  DOR  (placing  his  forefinger  for  a  mark  on  the  page, 
and  looking  up,  while  he  keeps  his  voice  raised,  as  wishing 
DON  SILVA  to  overhear  him  in  the  judicious  discharge  of  his 
function. 

Hear  ye  that,  young  gentlemen  ?  See  ye  not  that  if  ye 
have  but  bad  manners  even,  they  disgrace  you  more  than 
gross  misdoings  disgrace  the  low-born  ?  Think  you,  Arias, 
it  becomes  the  son  of  your  house  irreverently  to  sing  and 
fling  nuts,  to  the  interruption  of  your  elders  ? 

ARIAS  (sitting  on  the  floor,  and  leaning  backward  on  his  elbows). 

Nay,  Don  Amador  ;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was  a  heretic, 
and  I  think  that  is  not  true  writing.  For  noble  birth  gives 
us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  we  like. 

DON  AMADOR  (lifting  his  brows]. 
What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this  ? 

ARIAS. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in  a  grand 
way,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off,  like  the  Grand  Constable. 
I  shouldn't  mind  that. 

JosiL 

Nonsense,  Arias  !  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off  because 
their  crimes  are  noble.  If  they  did  what  was  unknightly, 
they  would  come  to  shame.  Is  not  that  true,  Don  Amador  ? 

DON  AMADOR. 

Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring  dishonor 
on  his  parentage.  Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did  you  ever  hear 
speak  as  you  have  spoken  ? 

ARIAS. 

Nay,  I  speak  out  of  my  own  head.  I  shall  go  and  ask  the 
Duke. 

HURTADO. 

Now,  now !  you  are  too  bold,  Arias. 
ARIAS. 

Oh,  he  is  never  angry  with  me — (Dropping  his  voice) 
because  the  Lady  Fedalmalibed  me.  She  said  I  was  a  good 
boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what  you  are  not,  Hurtado. 

HURTADO. 
Girl-face !     See,  now,  if  you  dare  &sk  the  Duke, 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  ia$ 

(Dow  SILVA  is  just  entering  the  hall  from  the  gallery,  with 
DON  ALVAR  behind  him,  intending  to  pass  out  at  the  other 
end.  All  rise  with  homage.  DON  SILVA  bows  coldly  and 
abstractedly.  ARIAS  advances  from  the  group,  and  goes  up 
to  DON  SILVA.) 

ARIAS. 
My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  noble  is  more  dishonored  than 

other  men  if  he  does  aught  dishonorable? 

DON  SILVA  (first  blushing  deeply,  and  grasping  his  sword, 
then  raising  his  hand  and  giving  ARIAS  a  blow  on  the  ear.) 
Varlet ! 

ARIAS. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 

(DON  SILVA  pushes  him  away,  and  passes  on  hurriedly!) 
DON  ALVAR  (following  and  turning  to  speak}. 

Go,  go  !  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when  you  are 
not  called  upon.     He  is  ill  and  much  distempered. 

(ARIAS  retires,  flushed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  His  companions 
look  too  much  surprised  to  triumph.  DON  AMADOR  remains 
silent  and  confused} 

The  Plafa  Santiago  during  busy  market-time.  Mules  and 
asses  laden  with  fruits  and  vegetables.  Stalls  and  booths 
filled  with  wares  of  all  sorts.  A  crowd  of  buyers  and  sellers. 
A  stalwart  woman,  with  keen  eyes,  leaning  over  the  panniers 
of  a  mule  laden  with  apples,  watches  LORENZO,  who  is  loung- 
ing through  the  market.  As  he  approaches  her,  he  is  met  by 
BLASCO. 

LORENZO. 
Well  met,  friend. 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 
And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry, 
To  take  my  reckoning.     I  go  forth  to-day. 

LORENZO. 

'Tis  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  had  the  gold  to  pay  such  guesta 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  yes; 
A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Has  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 
You  like  my  company — 'tis  natural. 
But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 
Have  sold  and  ta'en  commissions.     I  come  straight 
From — you  know  who — I  like  not  naming  him. 
I'm  a  thick  man  ;  you  reach  not  my  backbone 
With  any  tooth-pick  ;  but  I  tell  you  this  : 
He  reached  it  with  his  eye,  right  to  the  marrow. 
It  gave  me  heart  that  I  had  plate  to  sell, 
For,  saint  or  no  saint,  a  good  silversmith 
Is  wanted  for  God's  service  ;  and  my  plate—- 
He judged  it  well — bought  nobly. 

LORENZO. 

A  great  man, 
And  holy  ! 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  I'm  glad  I  leave  to-day. 
For  there  are  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell— 
One's  nose  has  fancies.     A  good  trader,  sir, 
Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  in  the  air, 
Most  caught  by  men  with  funds.     And  they  do  say 
There's  a  great  terror  here  in  Moors  and  Jews, 
I  would  say,  Christians  of  unhappy  blood. 
Tis  monstrous,  sure,  that  men  of  substance  lapse 
And  risk  their  property.     I  know  I'm  sound. 
No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.     Whate'er 
Is  the  right  faith,  that  I  believe — nought  else. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  truly,  for  the  flavor  of  true  faith 
Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 
But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 
Within  the  town  ;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 
Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 
To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man, 
More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father's  self, 
Half  chiding  God  that  He  will  tolerate 
A  Jew  or  Arab  ;  though,  'tis  plain  they're  made 
For  profit  of  good  Christians.    And  weak  heads— 
Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts — 
Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries, 
Rumors  of  accusation  and  arrest. 
All  air-begotten.     Sir,  you  need  not  gcx 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  Iff 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I'll  follow  you 
In  fifteen  minutes — finish  marketing, 
Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

BLASCO. 

Do  so.     I'll  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 
The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 
And  wending  northward.     There'll  be  fresh  demand 
For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 
When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 
Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts, 
And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 
Stay,  sir,  with  God,  until  we  meet  again  ! 

LORENZO. 
Go,  sir,  with  God,  until  I  follow  you. 

(Exit  BLASCO.  LORENZO/#W«  on  toward  the  market-woman 
who,  as  he  approaches,  raises  herself  from  her  leaning 
attitude) 

LORENZO. 

Good-day,  my  mistress.     How's  your  merchandise  ? 
Fit  for  a  host  to  buy  ?  Your  apples  now, 
They  have  fair  cheeks  ;  how  are  they  at  the  core  ? 

MARKET-WOMAN. 

Good,  good,  sir  !  Taste  and  try.     See,  here  is  one 
Weighs  a  man's  head.     The  best  are  bound  with  tow : 
They're  worth  the  pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from  splits, 

(She  takes  out  an  apple  bound  with  tow,  and,  as  she  puts  it  into 

LORENZO'S  hand,  speaks  in  a  lower  tone) 
'Tis  called  the  Miracle.     You  open  it, 
And  find  it  full  of  speech. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 

I'll  take  it  to  the  Doctor  in  the  tower. 
He  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 
I'll  buy  them  for  him.     Meanwhile,  drive  your  ass 
Round  to  my  hostelry.     I'll  straight  be  there. 
You'll  not  refuse  some  barter  ? 

MARKET-WOMAN. 

No,  not  L 
Feathers  and  skins. 


I£3  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

LORENZO. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 

(LORENZO,  after  smelling  at  the  apple,puts  it  info  a  pouch-like 
basket  which  hangs  before  him,  and  walks  away.  Tht 
woman  drives  off  the  mule.) 

A  LETTER. 

"Zarca,  the  chieftain  of  the  Gypsies,  greets 

44  The  King  El  Zagal.     Let  the  force  be  sent 

"With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 

**  A  good  five  hundred  added  to  my  bands 

**  Will  master  all  the  garrison:  the  town 

**  Is  half  with  us,  and  will  not  lift  an  arm 

*  Save  on  our  side.     My  scouts  have  found  a  way 

**  Where  once  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure : 

**  Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced, 

"  By  keen  conjecture  piercing  broken  sight, 

**  His  downward  path,  and  found  its  issue.     There 

41 A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort, 

"And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 

"  To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 

**  Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks, 

**  Waiting  the  night.     Enough:  give  me  command, 

"  Bedmar  is  yours.     Chief  Ztarca  will  redeem 

"  His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor: 

**  Let  the  Moor  too  be  faithful  and  repay 

"  The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 

"  To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Scham 

*'  And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 

*'  So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 

"  Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 

'  Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends.** 


BOOK  III. 

QUIT  now  the  town,  and  with  a  journeying  dream 
Swift  as  the  wings  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 
Through  multitudinous  pulsing  of  stored  sense 
And  spiritual  space,  see  walls  and  towers 
Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance, 
Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 
That  moves  and  murmurs  through  their  hidden  heart 
Pass  o'er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  153 

Then  wind  into  the  light  and  see  the  town 

Shrunk  to  white  crust  upon  the  darker  rock. 

Turn  east  and  south,  descend,  then  rise  anew 

'Mid  smaller  mountains  ebbing  toward  the  plain: 

Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height-loving  herbs 

That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 

Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 

And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 

Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 

Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.     Far  from  the  south, 

Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 

Comes  a  slow-dying  sound — the  Moslems'  call 

To  pray  in  afternoon.     Bright  in  the  sun 

Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  green  shadowy  sea 

Stand  Moorish  watch-towers:  'neath  that  eastern  sky 

Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza  ; 

Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 

Of  brave  El  Zagal.     This  is  Moorish  land, 

Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  breasts 

And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 

With  dark-armed  industry.     See  from  the  steep 

The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 

Down  toward  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 

Parts  a  green  hollow  'twixt  the  gentler  slopes ; 

And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings  :  not  white  homes 

Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 

Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 

Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 

Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.     Close  they  swarm 

About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 

Might  seem  a  dark-robed  crowd  in  penitence 

That  silent  kneel ;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 

And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life  ! 

Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat, 

The  ragged  kirtle  fringing  at  the  knee 

Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder's  smoothness 

Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 

Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 

Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers'  eyes, 

Rock  their  strong  cradling  arms  and  chant  low  strains 

Taught  by  monotonous  and  soothing  winds 

That  fall  at  night-time  en  the  dozing  ear. 

The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 

Into  the  caldron  :  tiny  urchins  crawl 


134  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 

Lads  lying  sphynx-like  with  uplifted  breast 

Propped  on  their  elbows,  their  black  manes  tossed  back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall, 

Dispute  and  scramble,  run  and  wrestle  fierce, 

Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again  ; 

Or  in  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 

The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  slung, 

And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 

Some  striplings  choose  the  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 

To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares, 

Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 

Of  some  exploring  dog  they  dart  away 

With  swift  precision  toward  a  moving  speck. 

These  are  the  brood  of  Zarca's  Gypsy  tribe  ; 

Most  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Sun 

On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father's  light 

Flashing  in  coal-black  eyes,  the  mother's  Wood 

With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 

The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 

Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 

Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  northern  heights. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp's  hubbub,  where  the  thicket  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face, 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 

That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  toward  its  lord, 

He  draws  deep  breath  secure  but  not  unwatched. 

Moving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves, 

As  mischievous,  too,  trip  three  barefooted  girls 

Not  opened  yet  to  womanhood — dark  flowers 

In  slim  long  buds  :  some  paces  farther  off 

Gathers  a  little  white-teethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 

Of  all  his  ornaments.     Hita  is  decked 

With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags  ; 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 

Upon  her  threadbare  woollen  ;  Hinda  now, 

Prettiest  and  boldest,  tucks  her  kirtle  up 

As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons — then 


THE    SPANISH    GVPSV.  I^ 

Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 
The  aigrette  and  long  feather  ;  deftly  cuts, 
Yet  wakes  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 
Shakes  off  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 
Of  Juan  :  Hinda  swift  as  thought  leaps  back, 
But  carries  off  the  spoil  triumphantly, 
And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh, 
Running  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps, 
Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 
And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase, 
While  Hinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 
To  stick  the  feather  in  with  majesty. 
Juan  still  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work. 

JUAN. 

Ah,  you  marauding  kite — my  feather  gone  ! 
My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes  ! 
This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  your  tribe  ! 
The  fiery-blooded  children  of  the  Sun — 
So  says  chief  Zarca — children  of  the  Sun  ! 
Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 
To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 
*  Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gat  saber, 
Made  all  the  brutes  polite  by  dint  of  song.** 
Pregnant — but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 
Derusive.     For  if  song  and  music  cure 
The  barbarous  trick  of  thieving,  'tis  a  cure 
That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 
In  curing  folly.     Why,  the  minxes  there 
Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 
As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 
Swung  by  the  breeze.     Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

(He  touches  Jus  Adfc.) 

Hem  !  taken  rightly,  any  single  thing, 
The  Rabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things. 
A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Meum  and  Tuum  from  a  saraband  : 
It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 
A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

(He  touches  the  lute  again.) 
There's  more  of  odd  than  even  in  this  world, 
Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  off 


Ij6  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY, 

Sooner  than  ugly  ;  for  if  honeycombs 

Are  to  be  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 

Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.     And  yet— 

Because  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 

At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 

With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 

I  should  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 

I'm  a  plucked  peacock — even  my  voice  and  wit 

Without  a  tail ! — why,  any  fool  detects 

The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 

May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit 

( He  touches  his  lute  again.) 

Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly, 
For  to  run  after  these  brown  lizards — ah  ! 
I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(As  he  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls  gradually  approach  : 
he  touches  it  more  briskly,  and  HIND  A,  advancing ;  begins  to 
move  arms  and  legs  with  an  initiatory  dancing  movement, 
smiling  coaxingly  at  JUAN.  He  suddenly  stops,  lays  down 
his  lute  and  folds  his  arms.) 

JUAN. 
What,  you  expect  a  tune  to  dance  to,  eh  ? 

HIND  A,    HITA,    TRALLA,    AND  THE    REST  (clapping  their 

hands). 
Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  a  tune  ! 

JUAN. 

Bat  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet  brothers  and 
sisters.  The  tunes  are  all  dead — dead  as  the  tunes  of  the 
lark  when  you  have  plucked  his  wings  off  ;  dead  as  the  song 
of  the  grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swallowed  him.  I  can 
play  and  sing  no  more.  Hinda  has  killed  my  tunes. 

(All cry  out  in  consternation.     HINDA  gives  a  wail  and  tries 
to  examine  the  lute.) 

JUAN  (waving  her  oft}. 

Understand,  Sefiora  Hinda,  that  the  tunes  are  in  me  ; 
they  are  not  in  the  lute  till  I  put  them  there.  And  if  you 
cross  my  humor,  I  shall  be  as  tuneless  as  a  bag  of  wool.  If 
the  tunes  are  to  be  brought  to  life  again,  I  must  have  my 
feather  bact 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  137 

(HiNDA  kisses  his  hands  and  feet  toaxingly.) 

No,  no  !  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.  The  feather, 
I  say,  the  feather ! 

(HINDA  sorrowfully    takes  off  the  feather,  and  gives  it  to 
JUAN.) 

Ah,  now  let  us  see.     Perhaps  a  tune  will  come, 

(He  plays  a  measure,  and  the  three  girls  begin  to  dance  j  then 
he  suddenly  stops.) 

JUAN. 

No,  the  tune  will  not  come  :  it  wants  the  aigrette  (jointing 
to  it  on  Hindoos  neck). 

(HiNDA,  with  rather  less  hesitation,  but  again  sorrowfully, 
takes  off  the  aigrette,  and  gives  it  to  him.) 

JUAN. 

Ha  !    (He plays  again,  but,  after  rather  a  longer  time,  again 
stops.)     No,  no ;  'tis  the  buttons  are  wanting,  Hinda,  the 
buttons.     This  tune  feeds  chiefly  on  buttons — a  greedy  tune. 
It  wants  one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six.     Good  ! 
(After  HINDA  has  given  up  the  buttons,  and  JUAN  has  laid 
them  down  one  by  one,  he  begins  to  play  again,  going  on  longer 
than  before,  so  that  the  dancers  become  excited  by  the  move- 
ment.    Then  he  stops.) 

JUAN. 

Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and  Tralla,  the  rosettes — both  are 
wanting.  I  see  the  tune  will  not  go  on  without  them. 

(HiTA  and  TRALLA  take  off  the  belt  and  rosettes,  and  lay  them 
down  quickly r,  being  fired  by  the  dancing,  and  eager  for  the 
music.  All  the  articles  lie  by  JUAN'S  side  on  the  ground?) 

JUAN. 

Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats  !  Now  I  think  the  tunes 
are  all  alive  again.  Now  you  may  dance  and  sing  too. 
Hinda,  my  little  screamer,  lead  off  with  the  song  I  taught 
you,  and  let  us  see  if  the  tune  will  go  right  on  from  begin- 
ning to  end. 

(He  plays.     The  dance  begins  again,  HINDA  singing.     All  the 
other  boys  and  girls  join  in  the  chorus }  and  all  at  last 
wildly) 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 
SONG. 

All  things  journey  :  sun  and  moon^ 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars  : 
'Twixt  the  east  and  western  ban 

Round  they  journey  ', 
Come  and  go  ! 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zincali'  s  loved  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  makes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad  : 
Then  we  rttn  till  we  are  mad, 

Like  tfie  horses, 
And  we  cry, 

None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us  —  we  are  free 
Drink  the  air  —  we  Zincali  ! 


the  snow  .-  the  pint-branch  split, 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it^flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run, 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sum 
In  the  dark  tent  : 

O  warm  dark  ! 
Warm  as  conies  ! 

Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  I 
Who  the  Zincali  shall  harm  ? 

Onward  journey  :  fires  are  spent  ; 
Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent, 

Run  before  the  rain, 
Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain, 

Hurry,  hurry, 

Lift  us,  wind  I 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zincali  s  loved  home. 

{When  the  dance  is  at  its  height,  HINDA  breaks  away  from 
the  rest,  and  dances  round  JUAN,  who  is  now  standing.  As 
he  turns  a  little  to  watch  her  movement,  some  of  the  boys 
skip  toward  the  feather,  aigrette,  etc.,  snatch  them  up,  and 
run  away,  swiftly  followed  by  HITA,  TRALLA,  and  the  rest. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  130 

HINDA,  as  she  turns  again,  sees  them,  screams,  and  falls  in 
her  whirling;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and  rushes  after  them, 
still  screaming  with  rage.) 

JUAN. 

Santiago  !  these  imps  get  bolder.  Ha  ha  !  Seflora  Hinda, 
this  finishes  your  lesson  in  ethics.  You  have  seen  the  ad- 
vantage of  giving  up  stolen  goods.  Now  you  see  the  ugli- 
ness of  thieving  when  practiced  by  others.  That  fable  of 
mine  about  the  tunes  was  excellently  devised.  I  feel  like 
an  ancient  sage  instructing  our  lisping  ancestors.  My 
memory  will  descend  as  the  Orpheus  of  Gypsies.  But  I 
must  prepare  a  rod  for  those  rascals.  I'll  bastinado  them 
with  prickly  pears.  It  seems  to  me  these  needles  will  have 
a  sound  moral  teaching  in  them. 

(  While  JUAN  takes  a  knife  from  his  belt,  and  surveys  a  bush 
of  the  prickly  pear,  HINDA  returns?) 

JUAN. 

Pray,  Sefiora,  why  do  you  fume  ?  Did  you  want  to  steal 
my  ornaments  again  yourself  ? 

HINDA  (sobbing). 

No  ;  I  thought  you  would  give  them  me  back  again. 
JUAN. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again  ?  Do  yoa 
like  finery  better  than  dancing  ? 

HINDA. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale  !  I  shall  tell  tales,  too,  when  I  want  to 
get  anything  I  can't  steal.  And  I  know  what  I  will  do.  I 
shall  tell  the  boys  I've  found  some  little  foxes,  and  I  will 
aever  say  where  they  are  till  they  give  me  back  the  feather! 

(She  runs  off  again.) 

JUAN. 

Hem  !  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode  sooner  than 
the  matter.  Teaching  virtue  with  this  prickly  pear  may 
only  teach  the  youngsters  to  use  a  new  weapon  ;  as  your 
teaching  orthodoxy  with  faggots  may  only  bring  up  a 
fashion  of  roasting.  Dios  !  my  remarks  grow  too  pregnant 
— my  wits  get  a  plethora  by  solitary  feeding  on  the  produce 
of  my  own  wisdom. 


140  THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

(Af  he  puts  up  his  knife  again,  HIND  A  comes  running  baek^ 
and  crying,  "  Our  Queen  1  our  Queen  /  "  JUAN  adjusts  his 
garments  and  his  lute,  while  HINDA  turns  to  meet  FEDALMA, 
who  wears  a  Moorish  dress,  her  black  hair  hanging  round  her 
in  plaits,  a  white  turban  on  her  head,  a  dagger  by  her  side* 
She  carries  a  scarf  on  tier  left  arm,  which  she  holds  up  as  a 
shade.) 

FEDALMA  (patting  HINDA'S  head.) 

How  now,  wild  one  ?     You  are  hot  and  panting,     Go  to 
my  tent,  and  help  Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 

(HINDA  kisses  FEDALMA'S  hand  and  runs  off.  FEDALMA 
advances  toward  JUAN,  who  kneels  to  take  up  the  edge  of  her 
cymar,  and  kisses  it.) 

JUAN. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ?     You  look  sad. 
FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart     The  eye  of  day, 

The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless, 

Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 

Of  weary  life  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 

Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie  ; 

As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man 

Who  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 

On  the  wide  un  specked  round  of  blue  and  blue 

Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 

The  insect's  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 

Startles  and  seems  to  cheat  me,  as  the  tread 

Of  coming  footsteps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 

Who  holds  her  heart  and  waits  to  hear  them  pause, 

And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 

Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 

Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 

The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 

Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 

Wait  round  me  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves, 

Of  whom  I  want  naught  but  the  secret  news 

They  are  forbid  to  tell.     And,  Juan,  you — 

You,  too,  are  cruel — would  be  over- wise 

In  judging  your  friend's  needs,  and  choose  to  hide 

Something  I  crave  to  know. 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  14 

JUAN. 

I,  lady  ? 
FEDALMA. 

You. 

JUAN. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  hide  aught, 
Save  what  a  man  is  whipped  for  publishing. 
I'm  no  more  reticent  than  the  voluble  air- 
Dote  on  disclosure — never  could  contain 
The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 
But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 
My  lust  to  teil  is  so  importunate 
That  it  abridges  every  other  vice, 
And  makes  me  temperate  for  want  of  time. 
I  dull  sensation  in  the  haste  to  say 
Tis  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 
Judge,  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 
When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  sing  such  falsities  !  —  you  mock  me  worse 

By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 

You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 

To  please  my  father.     Oh,  'tis  well  meant,  say  yoo— 

Pity  for  woman's  weakness.     Take  my  thanks. 

JUAN. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  corn 
Burning  your  servant's  palm. 

FEDALMA. 

Deny  it  not, 

You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 
Lies  from  Bedmar — what  mountains  lie  between— 
Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke — 
That  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 
Losing  the  Zincala,  finds  now  how  slight 
The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 
A  Spanish  noble's  life.     No,  that  is  false ! 
He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 
Some  evil  has  befallen  him — he's  slain — 
Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 
Because  I  made  all  lii'e  seem  treachery. 
Tell  me  the  worst — be  merciful — no  worst, 


142  THE     SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear, 
Would  not  show  like  a  better. 

JUAN. 

If  I  speak, 

Will  you  believe  your  slave  ?     For  truth  is  scant ; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
How  say  you  ?     Does  your  hunger's  fancy  choose 
The  meagre  fact  ? 

FED  ALMA  {seating  herself  on  the  ground). 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

JUAN. 

That  all  is  naught. 
I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms  :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood — some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free ; 
Or  else  some  image  of  reality 
That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false 
As  for  conjecture — I  can  tread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Right  to  Bedmdr,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 
A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored. 

FEDALMA. 

And  you  have  gathered  naught 
About  the  border  wars  ?     No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumors  that  concern  the  Duke — 
Rumors  kept  from  me  by  my  father  ? 

JUAN. 

None. 

Your  father  trusts  no  secret  to  the  echoes. 
Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 
Save  those  few  hundred  chosen  Gypsy  breasts 
He  carries  with  him.     Think  you  he's  a  man 
To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 
Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 
To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well? 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  14$ 

Why,  if  he  found  me  knowing  aught  too  much. 
He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 
"  Poor  hound  !  it  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 
Could  chance  to  mar  my  plans  :  he  loved  my  daughter— • 
The  idle  hound  had  naught  to  do  but  love, 
So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed." 

FEDLAMA  (holding  out  her  Jiand,  which  JUAN  kisses). 

Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 

You'd  ope  your  veins  and  let  your  life-blood  out 

To  save  another's  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 

With  jesting — say,  'twas  merest  accident, 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep— 

And  die  content  with  man's  slight  thoughts  of  yoa» 

Finding  your  glory  in  another's  joy. 

JUAN. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 
Honey's  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 
Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems 
Hiding  their  color.     What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tarif  ? — lapis  lazuli, 
Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas  :  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much;  sapphires  higher  still. 
The  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blueness 
Is  what  I  care  for,  not  its  name  or  price. 
So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend, 
'Tis  for  my  love — 'tis  for  my  friend  alone, 
And  not  for  any  rate  that  friendship  bears 
In  heaven  or  on  earth.     Nay,  I  romance — 
I  talk  of  Roland  and  the  ancient  peers. 
In  me  'tis  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight ; 
So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them. 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  me  ; 
I've  seen  the  jewel's  flash,  and  know  'tis  there, 
Muffle  it  as  you  will.     That  foam-like  talk 
Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 
Your  presence  brings  me.     Oft  I'm  pierced  afresh 
Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  selfish  griefs. 
By  thought  of  you.     It  was  a  rash  resolve 


144  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

Made  you  disclose  youself  when  you  kept  watch 
About  the  terrace  wall : — your  pity  leaped, 
Seeing  alone  my  ills  and  not  your  loss, 
Self-doomed  to  exile.     Juan,  you  must  repent. 
'Tis  not  in  nature  that  resolve,  which  feeds 
On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 
In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessness. 

JUAN. 

Repent  ?     Not  I.     Repentance  is  the  weight 
Of  indigested  meals  ta'en  yesterday. 
'Tis  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey, 
Not  for  a  honey-sipping  butterfly. 
I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redodillas — 
The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 
Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men's  lives  : 
No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there  ; 
I  still  catch  sunbeams.     And  in  Africa, 
Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  large, 
Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 
A  poet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief: 
I  shall  grow  epic,  like  the  Florentine, 
And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 
Sing  the  new  Gypsy  Carthage. 

FEDALMA. 

Africa 

Would  we  were  there  !    Under  another  heaven. 
In  lands  where  neither  love  no  memory 
Can  plant  a  selfish  hope — in  lands  so  far 
I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 
That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 
I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair; 
So  rest  forever  from  the  thought  of  bliss, 
And  wear  my  weight  of  life's  great  chain  unstru 
Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget — 
Nay,  not  forget,  forgive  me — be  content 
That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow, 
For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 
That  destiny  made  base  !     Then  he  would  taste 
No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory, 
And  I  should  live  unblemished  in  his  thought 
Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  unwed  bride. 
Our  words  have  wings,  but  fly  net  where  we  would. 
Could  mine  but  reach  him,  Juan ! 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  145 

JUAN. 

Speak  the  wish—- 
My feet  have  wings — I'll  be  your  Mercury. 
I  fear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 
No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.     Nay,  I'm  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 
Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.     I  will  go—- 
Will fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet 
But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  toward  that  mark 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.     Given,  I  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  Bedmar : 
Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 
Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  wing  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 
It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 
If  my  return  were  stayed.     I  might  be  caged  ; 
They  would  not  harm  me  else.     Untimely  death, 
The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton, 
Has  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me  ; 
Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 
The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come, 
Bringing  you  comfort  back. 

FED  ALMA  (starts  from  her  seat  and  walks  to  a  little  distant* 
standing  a  few  moments  with  her  back  toward  JUAN, /£;**& 
turns  round  quickly ',  and  goes  toward  him), 

No,  Juan,  no ! 

Those  yearning  words  came  from  a  soul  infirm, 
Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 
Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.     He  knows  all — 
All  that  he  needs  to  know  :  I  said  farewell : 
I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 
'T would  yawn  behind  me.     I  must  walk  right  on. 
No,  I  will  not  win  aught  by  risking  you  : 
That  risk  would  poison  my  poor  hope.     Besides, 
'Twere  treachery  in  me  :  my  father  wills 
That  we — all  here — should  rest  within  this  camp. 
If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 
In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 
While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 
And  beady  brow,  pressed  'neath  the  weight  of  arms, 


J4<>  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Shall  I,  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness, 

Raise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence  ? 

No !     On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 

A  battle  rages :  Fate  has  carried  me 

'Mid  the  thick  arrows  :  I  will  keep  my  stand — 

Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 

To  pierce  another.     Oh,  'tis  written  large 

The  thing  I  have  to  do.     But  you,  dear  Juan, 

Renounce,  endure,  are  brave,  unurged  by  aught 

Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will. 

(She  seats  herself  again.) 
JUAN. 

Nay,  I  endure  naught  worse  than  napping  sheep 
When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  lock 
To  line  their  nest  with.     See  !  your  bondsman,  queen, 
The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  featherless  ; 
Deforms  your  presence  by  a  moulting  garb  ; 
Shows  like  a  roadside  bush  culled  of  its  buds. 
Yet,  if  your  graciousness  will  not  disdain 
A  poor  plucked  songster — shall  he  sing  to  you  ? 
Some  lay  of  afternoons — some  ballad  strain 
Of  those  who  ached  once  but  are  sleeping  now 
Under  the  sun-warmed  flowers  ?     'Twill  cheat  the  time. 

FEDALMA. 

Thanks,  Juan — later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 
My  soul  is  clogged  with  self ;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 
Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  but  come  again — 
Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

JUAN. 

Then  your  slave 
Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.     Queen,  farewell  f 

FEDALMA. 

Best  friend,  my  well-spring  in  the  wilderness  ! 
[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet  welcome,  too.     Straightway  she  rose  and  stood, 
All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense, 
Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 
Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father's  self 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  Uf] 

That  made  the  camp  so  glad  ? 

It  was  himself  I 

She  saw  him  now  advancing,  girt  with  arms 
That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 
Beside  the  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 
That  made  his  fame.     He  glanced  with  absent  triumph 
As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 
And  bears  off  unseen  spoil.     But  nearing  her, 
His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth  new  rays — 
A  sudden  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 
Twixt  meeting  dark.     All  tenderly  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  her  shoulder ;  tenderly, 
His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

ZARCA. 

My  royal  daughter  \ 
FED  ALMA. 
Father,  I  joy  to  see  your  safe  return. 

ZARCA. 

Nay,  I  but  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 
Steal  from  the  morrow's  meal,  made  a  forced  march, 
Left  Hassan  as  my  watchdog,  all  to  see 
My  daughter,  and  to  feed  her  famished  hope 
With  news  of  promise. 

FEDALMA. 

Is  the  task  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight  ? 

ZARCA. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision 
Things  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 
The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 
While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.     His  keen  eye 
Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 
You  have  heard  naught,  then — had  no  messenger? 

FEDALMA. 

I,  father  ?  no  :  each  quiet  day  has  fled 
Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  win& 
And  pausing  in  the  sunshine. 
ZARCA. 

It  is  well. 
You  shall  not  long  count  days  in  weariness. 


THE   SPANISH 

Ere  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new, 
We  shall  reach  Almerfa :  Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.     Do  you  shrink  ? 
Are  you  aught  less  than  a  true  Zincala  ? 

FEDALMA. 

No  ;  but  I  am  more.     The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 
ZARCA. 

They  stole  you  first,  and  reared  you  for  the  flamea 
I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  Zincala's  life  ;  I  saved  you  from  their  doom. 
Your  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

FEDALMA  (in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant— 
To  seize  me  ? — ere  he  came  ? 

ZARCA. 

Yes,  I  know  all 

They  found  your  chamber  empty. 
FEDALMA  (eagerly). 

Then  yoti  ki 
{Checking  herself.} 

Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust 

ZARCA. 

My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab's  secret.     Arabs  are  our  friends, 
Grappling  for  life  with  Christians  who  lay  waste 
Granada's  valleys,  and  with  devilish  hoofs 
Trample  the  young  green  corn,  with  devilish  play 
Fell  blossomed  trees,  and  tear  up  well-pruned  vinea : 
Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 
They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  they  mean  to  break  ; 
Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless ; 
Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth 
And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  lore 
The  flattery  of  liars.     I  will  strike 
The  full-gorged  dragon.     You,  my  child,  must  watch 
The  battle  with  a  heart,  not  fluttering 
But  duteous,  firm-weighted  by  resolve, 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  149 

Choosing  between  two  lives,  like  hei  v\o  holds 
A  dagger  which  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts, 
And  one  of  them  her  father's.     You  divine- — 
I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables  ; 
Put  one  for  many. 

FEDALMA  (collecting  herself  and  looking  firmly  at  ZARCA)L 

Then  it  is  your  will 
That  I  ask  nothing  ? 

ZARCA. 

You  shall  know  enough 

To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 
El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high  : 
He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber's  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 
So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye, 
And  my  five  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 
More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsin. 
Ha,  your  eye  flashes.     Are  you  glad  ? 

FED  ALMA. 

Yes,  glad 
That  men  can  greatly  trust  a  Zincala. 

ZARCA. 

Why,  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 
For  cutting  only,  not  for  ornament. 
What  naught  but  Nature  gives,  man  takes  perforce 
Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 
Can  he  compress  invention  out  of  pride, 
Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Toward  great  discoveries  with  a  pedigree  ? 
Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.     A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty,  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel. 

FEDALMA  (bitterly). 

To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 
T^i*  oledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours, 


150  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

ZARCA. 

Let  men  contemn  us  :  'tis  such  blind  contempt 
That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 
Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms 
So  we  shall  thrive — still  darkly  shall  draw  force 
Into  a  new  and  multitudinous  life 
That  likeness  fashions  to  community, 
Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith  and  laws. 
*Tis  ripeness,  'tis  fame's  zenith  that  kills  hope, 
Huge  oaks  are  dying,  forests  yet  to  come 
Lie  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 

FEDALMA. 

And  our  wild  Zincali  ?  'Neath  their  rough  husk 
Can  you  discern  such  seed  ?  You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise  ; 
They  give  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There's  metal  in  their  earth  ? 

ZARCA. 

Ay,  metal  fine 

In  my  brave  Gypsies.     Not  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  furthest  speck 
That  tells  of  change  ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faith  in  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.     My  sealers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they're  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  the  bow  ;  while  I  their  chief 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 
Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  the  passive  helm. 
For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force, 
And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 
With  thoughts  impalpable  we  clutch  men's  souls, 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 
Tell  me  what's  mirrored  in  the  tiger's-  heart, 
I'll  rule  that  too. 

FEDALMA  (wrought  to  a  gloiv  of  admiration). 
O  my  imperial  father ! 

Tis  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men's  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  15! 

ZARCA  (seizing  both  FEDALMA'S  hands,  and  looking  at 
her  scarchingly) . 

And  you,  my  daughter,  what  are  you — if  not 

The  Zfncala's  child  ?    Say,  does  not  his  great  hope 

Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory  ? 

'Tis  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 

Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  loves  j 

That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 

Set  to  small  measures — deaf  to  all  the  beats 

Of  that  large  music  rolling  o'er  the  world  : 

A  miserable,  petty  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  skies 

Through  naught  save  light  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  brutes  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 

And  move  together,  gathering  a  new  soul — 

The  soul  of  multitudes.     Say  now,  my  child, 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 

For  unfledged  ease  in  some  soft  alien  nest 

The  crane  with  outstretched  wing  that  heads  the  file 

Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses : 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more  ; 

Before  it  lies  the  summer  it  will  reach 

Or  perish  in  mid-ocean.     You  no  less 

Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growing  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings  7 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm's  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm's  delights  : 

You  must  take  winged  pleasures,  winged  pains. 

Are  you  not  steadfast  ?     Will  you  live  or  die 

For  aught  below  your  royal  heritage  ? 

To  him  who  hold  the  flickering  brief  torch 

That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.     Would  you  let  drop  the  torch? 

FEDALMA. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 
Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 
Which  to  your  un dimmed  sight  is  fixed  and  clear. 
But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hope, 
It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 
I  choose  the  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 
With  my  poor  being.     Hopes  have  precarious  life. 
They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  snapped  sheer  off 


J52  TEE     SPANISH    GYPSY. 

In  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 
But  faithfulness  can  feed  on  suffering, 
And  knows  no  disappointment.     Trust  in  me ! 
If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 
Should  grasp  the  torch — strive  not  to  let  it  fall 
Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 
No  beacon  lighted  yet :  through  the  damp  dark 
I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 
Father,  I  will  be  true  ! 

ZARCA. 

I  trust  that  word. 

And,  for  your  sadness — you  are  young — the  bruise 
Will  leave  no  mark.     The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys, 
And,  sore  athirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.     You  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleness.     The  life  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  full-arched  firmament. 
Our  deeds  shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 
Now  I  must  hasten  back.     I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nadar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
In  setting  watch  and  victualing.     The  stars 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  post 
Nay,  rest  you  here.     Farewell,  my  younger  self — 
Strong-hearted  daughter !     Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me  ? 

FEDALMA. 

My  father,  death 

Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
With  the  beseechings  of  a  mighty  soul 
That  left  its  work  unfinished.     Kiss  me  now  : 

(  They  embarce  and  she  adds  tremulously  as  they  tsart?) 

And  when  you  see  fair  hair,  be  pitiful. 

(Exit  ZARCA.) 

(FEDALMA  seats  herself  on  the  bank,  leans  her  head  forward, 
and  covers  her  face  ^vith  her  drapery.  Whiu*  she  is  seated 
thus  HIND  A  comes  from  the  bank,  with  a  branch  of  musk 
roses  in  her  hand.  Seeing  FEDALMA  with  head  bent  and 
covered,  sfo  pauses  and  begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.) 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  I§J 

HlNDA. 

Our  Queen  ?    Can  she  be  crying  ?    There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 

(She  comes  forward  on  tiptoe,  kneels  at  FLD  ALMA'S/^  and 
embraces  them.     FEDALMA  uncovers  her  head.} 

FEDALMA. 
Hinda  !  what  is  it  ? 

HINDA. 

Queen,  a  branch  of  roses — 

So  sweet,  you'll  love  to  smell  them.     'Twas  the  last. 
I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla. 
And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.     But  I  don't  mind. 
You  love  the  roses — so  do  I.     I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  off  the  shaken  bush.     Why  will  it  not  ? 
Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.     They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet  ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking  all  at  once ! 
Over  the  sea,  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go^ 
Will  it  rain  roses  ? 

FEDALMA. 

No,  my  prattler,  no  ! 
It  never  will  rain  roses  :  when  we  want 
To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 
But  you  want  nothing,  little  one — the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 
Come,  you  want  nothing. 

HINDA. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries—- 
Red ones — to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 
When  I  am  married — on  my  ankles,  too, 
I  want  to  wind  red  berries,  and  on  my  head. 

FEDALMA. 
Who  is  it  you  are  fond  of  ?    Tell  me,  now. 

HINDA. 

O  Queen,  you  know  !    It  could  be  no  one  else 
But  Ismael.     He  catches  all  the  birds, 
Knows  where  the  speckled  fish  are,  scales  the  rocks, 


154  THE      SPANISH     GYPSY. 

And  sings  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like. 
How  should  I  marry  and  not  marry  him  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 
Or  white  Castilian  > 
HDTDA  (starting  to  her  feet t  then  kneeling  again\ 

Are  you  angry  Queen  ? 

Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Hinda  f 
She'd  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 
Than  be  an  outcast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 

FEDALMA. 

I  think  no  evil — am  not  angry,  child. 
But  would  you  part  from  Ismael  ?  Leave  him  now 
If  your  chief  bade  you — said  it  was  for  good 
To  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him  ? 

HINDA  (giving  a  sharp  cry). 
Ah,  will  he  say  so  ? 

FEDALMA  (almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness). 
Nay,  child  answer  me. 
Could  you  leave  Ismael  ?  get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  twixt  you  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not, 
And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more  ? 
If  'twas  your  chief's  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 

Of  famine — madly  drink  each  other's  blood 

HINDA  (trembling). 

0  Queen,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismael. 

FEDALMA. 
You  would  obey,  then  ?   part  from  him  forever  ? 

HINDA. 

How  could  we  live  else  ?  With  our  brethren  lost  ? 
No  marriage  feast  ?  The  day  would  turn  to  dark. 
A  Zincala  cannot  live  without  her  tribe. 

1  must  obey  !    Poor  Ismael  ! — poor  Hinda,  I 
But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  dark  ? 

Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  cry, 
And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more  : 
Then  I  should  go  to  sleep. 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  155 

FEDALMA. 

No,  Hinda,  no ! 

Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him. 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 
And  I'  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad, 
That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 
Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.     See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 

HINDA  (clapping  her  hands,  while  FEDALMA  puts  the  rotes  on 
her  head). 

Oh,  I'm  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes — 
I  will  find  Ismael,  and  tell  him  all. 

(She  runs  ojf.) 
FEDALMA  (alone.) 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.     Within  her  world 
The  dial  has  not  stirred  since  first  she  woke  : 
No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 
And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 
For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 
In  what  is  possible  :  life  is  one  web 
Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 
Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 
With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep. 
She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path  : 
Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  her  will  is  one 
With  her  own  people's  law,  the  only  law 
She  ever  knew.     For  me — I  have  fire  within, 
But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 
Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 
Yet  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 
I  could  be  firm,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 
And  walk  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 
If  I  but  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 
With  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  sonl, 
And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 
But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal  : 
I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 
Guided  by  flashes.     When  my  father  comes, 
And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  hope — 
By  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great, 
A3  the  clear  heavens  bring  sublimity, 


5  THE     SPANISH     6YPSY. 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  vast- 
Resolve  is  strong  :  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 
Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 
Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed — 
Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 
And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 
But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  trumpet  strain 
That  vibrated  as  strength  through  all  my  limbs 
Is  heard  no  longer  ;  over  the  wide  scene 
There's  naught  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 
And  fitful  discord  of  a  vulgar  world. 
Then  I  sink  helpless — sink  into  the  arms 
Of  all  sweet  memories,  and  dream  of  bliss  : 
See  looks  that  penetrate  like  tones  ;  hear  tones 
That  flash  looks  with  them.     Even  now  I  feel 
Soft  airs  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 
Of  some  soft  presence  touched  me  with  their  warmth 
And  brought  a  tender  murmuring 

[While  she  mused, 

A  figure  came  from  out  the  olive  trees 
That  bent  close  whispering  'twixt  the  parted  hills 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus  :  paused 
At  sight  of  her  ;  then  slowly  forward  moved 
With  careful  steps,  and  gently  said,  "  FEDALMA  !  ** 
Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enlsaved  her  sense, 
She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.     Soon  again  : 
"FEDALMA,  it  is  SILVA  !  "     Then  she  turned. 
He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 
Like  morning  on  her.     Vision  held  her  still 
One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift, 
Inevitable  as  the  melting  stream's, 
She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

FEDALMA. 

O  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me  ! 
DON  SILVA. 

Once  more  we  are  together.     Wishing  dies — 
Stifled  with  bliss. 

FEDALMA. 

You  did  not  hate  me,  then — 
Think  me  an  ingrate — think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you  ? 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY,  157 

DON  SILVA, 

Dear,  I  trusted  you 

As  holy  men  trust  God.     You  could  do  naught 
That  was  not  pure  and  loving — though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.     You  had  less  trust, 
Since  you  suspected  mine.     'Twas  wicked  doubt 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me,  the  fault 
Seemed  in  my  lot — my  bitter  birthright — hers 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  naught  but  sorrow.     Then  I  said, 
'Tis  better  so.     He  will  be  happier !  " 
But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope, 
Would  end  in  tears. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  cruel  thought 
Happier  !     True  misery  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 

FEDALMA. 

SILVA  ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Mine! 

(  They  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence, 

FEDALMA. 

I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love — 
Long  eloquent  stories — how  it  all  befell — 
The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 
To  awful  spousals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 
A  conscious  ghost,  looked  on  and  saw  me  vied. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  that  grave  speech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  moments  with  their  loudness. 

FEDALMA. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  'twould  end  in  this, 
That  I  still  loved  you  when  I  fled  away. 
Tis  no  more  wisdom  than  the  little  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other's  heart  beat. 


IS   -  Tl*»    SPANISH     OVPBY. 

SILTA. 


All  the  deepest  things 

We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse  ; 
Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 

FEDALMA. 

I  forget 
All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught 

(Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments!) 

But  tell  me  how  you  came  ?    Where  are  your  guards? 
Is  there  no  risk  ?    And  now  I  look  at  you, 
This  garb  is  strange  - 

DON  SILVA. 

I  came  alone. 
FEDALMA. 

Alone? 
DON  SILVA. 

Yes  —  fled  in  secret.     There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 

FEDALMA  (letting  one  hand  fall  and  moving  a  little  from  him 
with  a  look  of  sudden  terror,  while  he  clasps  her  morefirmfy 
by  the  other  arm). 

Silva  ! 
DON  SILVA. 

It  is  naught 

Enough  that  I  am  here.     Now  we  will  cling. 
What  power  shall  hinder  us  ?     You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.     That  task  is  done, 
And  you  are  mine  again.     I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  you,  see  your  father,  win 
His  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.     Are  we  not  betrothed  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  trembling  'neath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
That  come  like  griefs  at  morning  —  look  at  me 
With  awful  faces,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  thoughts  ? 


THK     SPANISH     GYPSY.  159 

FED  ALMA. 

Forgotten  burials.     There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 

DON  SILVA. 

Your  love  is  faint,  else  aught  that  parted  us 
Would  seem  but  superstition.     Love  supreme 
Defies  dream-terrors — risks  avenging  fires. 
I  have  risked  all  things.     But  your  love  is  faint. 
FEDALMA  (retreating  a  little,  but  keeping  his  hand). 
Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 
Severed  my  arm,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 
This  poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword 

(ZARC  A  has  been  advancing  in  the  background.  He  has  drawn 
his  sword,  and  now  thrusts  the  naked  blade  between  them. 
DON  SILVA  lets  go  FEDALMA'S  hand,  and  grasps  his  sword. 
FEDALMA,  startled  at  first,  stands  firmly,  as  if  prepared  to 
interpose  between  her  Father  and  the  Duke.) 
ZARCA. 

Ay,  'tis  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala  : 
A  sword  that  was  baptised  in  Christian  blood, 
When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us, 
And  outraged  then  our  women. 

(Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground!) 
My  lord  Duke, 

I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will ;  had  entertainment  too — 
Much  like  a  galley-slave's.     Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  Zincala's  camp  to  find  a  fit  return 
For  that  Castilian  courtesy  ?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  free  bestowal  of  your  presence  here  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  I  have  brought  no  scorn  to  meet  your  scorn. 
I  came  because  love  urged  me — that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter — her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride. 


I<SO  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

ZARCA. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  final  argument 
Your  men-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

I  came  alone.     The  only  force  I  bring 
Is  tenderness.     Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
In  all  the  pleadings  of  a  father's  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  nurture  bids. 
And  for  your  tribe — whatever  purposed  good 
Your  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble's  power  : 
My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

ZARCA  (with  irony). 

My  thanks  I 

To  me  you  offer  liberal  price  ;  for  her 
Your  love's  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 
She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave, 
Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father, 
Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say, 
*  Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  your  bride  ; 
I  am  quite  culled,  have  neither  root  nor  trunk, 
Now  wear  me  with  your  plume  !  " 
DON  SILVA. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 

Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.     I  would  make  my  rank 
The  pedestal  of  her  worth  ;  a  noble's  sword, 
A  noble's  honor,  her  defense  ;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood. 

ZARCA. 

I  tell  you,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 
And  won  my  daughter's  hand,  your  higher  rank 
Would  blacken  her  dishonor.      Twere  excuse 
If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon, 
And  so  made  even  with  her  people's  lot ; 
For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth,. 
To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 
To  whom  her  tribes  owes  curses. 
DON  SILVA. 

Such  blind  hate 
Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 


THE    SPANISH   GYPSY.  l6l 

My  hostile  acts  against  you,  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,  am  I  criminal  ? 
Love  comes  to  conceal  all  ancestral  hate, 
Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Union  is  deeper  than  division. 

ZARCA. 

Ay, 

Such  love  is  common  :  I  have  seen  it  oft — 
Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 
That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 
Making  them  mothers  of  a  people's  virtue  : 
Seen  them  so  leveled  to  a  handsome  steed 
That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property, 
To-day  is  Christian — wears  new-fashioned  gear, 
Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prance  alike 
Under  all  banners,  so  the  banner  be 
A  master's  who  caresses.     Such  light  change 
You  call  conversion  ;  but  we  Zincali  call 
Conversion  infamy.     Our  people's  faith 
Is  faithfulness  ;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 
That  we  are  heaven's  highest  favorites, 
But  the  resolve  that  being  most  forsaken 
Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 
Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot, 
You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy : 
Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 
Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people's  woes. 
The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 
Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 
A  bride  with  such  a  dowry  has  no  match 
Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 
Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 
Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

DON  SILVA. 

And  yon, 

Fedalma's  father — you  who  claim  the  dues 
Of  fatherhood — will  offer  up  her  youth 
To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  phantasy  ! 
Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 
To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win. 


t6*  THE     SPANISH    GYPST. 

Will  sacrifice  your  daughter — to  no  god, 

But  to  a  ravenous  fire  within  your  soul, 

Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 

Shriek  at  a  name  !     This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 

As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 

Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 

On  dreary  wilds  ;  in  visions  mad  proclaim 

Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers  ; 

Doom,  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart, 

To  wait  for  death  'mid  squalid  savages  : 

For  what?     You  would  be  savior  of  your  tribe ; 

So  said  Fedalma's  letter  ;  rather  say, 

You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men, 

But  first  to  rule  ;  and  with  that  flinty  will 

You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 

Gash  your  child's  bosom. 

(  While  DON  SILVA  has  been  speaking,  with  growing  passion^ 
FED  ALMA  has  placed  herself  between  him  and  her  father?) 

ZARCA  (with  calm  irony). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord  ! 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man  : 
You  have  a  heart,  I  none.     Fedalma's  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for  ;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  naught 
But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 
Though  in  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 
Fume  at  your  own  opinion  as  you  will : 
I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  mate  with  you, 
To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 
And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 
When  women  whisper,  "  A  mere  Zincala  !  " 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 
That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 
Her  kindred  and  her  kindred's  misery. 
Nor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  couch 
Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 
The  place  that  she  was  born  to — let  her  go ! 
If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love, 
That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 
As  men  in  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day ; 
And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds, 
Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men. 


TMS    Il'ANISH    GYPSY.  l 

The  faith  in  human  hearts — then  let  her  go ! 

She  is  my  only  offspring  ;  in  her  veins 

She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in ; 

Her  heritage  is  their  obedience, 

And  if  I  died  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 

To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 

Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 

To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show  ; 

Then  live  a  goddess  sanctifying  oaths, 

Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences, 

By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds, 

Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people's  life. 

If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame, 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion — 

The  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools — 

Then  let  her  go !     You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base  and  treacherous, 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men's  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches: 

We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 

As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 

We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 

That  she — the  Zincala — who  might  save  her  race 

And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot, 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.     Her  one  base  choice 

Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 

Where  men  must  drink,  shed  by  her  poisoning  will. 

Now  choose,  Fedalma  ! 

[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowly,  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecating  arms 
She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart : 
Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain  ; 
Yearning,  yet  shrinking  ;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 
Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 
Remote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 
With  fates  close-crowded  :  firm  to  slay  her  joy 
That  cut  her  heart  with  smiles  beneath  the  knife, 
Like  a  sweet  babe  foredoomed  by  prophecy. 
She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father :  stood 
Hand  clutching  hand,  her  limbs  all  tense  with  will 
That  strove  'gainst  anguish,  eyes  that  seemed  a  soul 


364  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

Yearning  in  death  toward  him  she  loved  and  left. 
He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 
Fierce  to  resist  whatever  might  seem  strong 
And  ask  him  to  submit :  he  saw  one  end — 
He  must  be  conqueror  ;  monarch  of  his  lot 
And  not  its  tributary.     But  she  spoke 
Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 

FEDALMA. 

My  lord,  farewell! 

Twas  well  we  met  once  more  ;  now  we  must  part. 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love's  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  thought  we  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death. 
Clings  as  brute  mothers  bleeding  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead  ; 
Taking  the  death-wound  sooner  than  divide. 
I  thought  we  loved  so. 

FEDALMA. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 

Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 
You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt  : 
She  is  quite  beggard  :  if  she  gave  herself 
'Twould  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  forsaken  better.     It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks  :  the  Spanish  noble's  wife 
Were  a  false  Zincala.     No  !  I  would  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 
See,  'twas  my  people's  life  that  throbbed  in  me : 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  in  my  soul, 
And  made  me  restless  even  in  my  bliss. 
Oh,  all  my  bliss  was  in  our  love  ;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it  :  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.     Dear,  farewell ! 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 

[She  stretched  forth 

Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his, 
The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seemed  like  their  touch.     But  he  stood  still  as  death 
Locked  motionless  by  forces  opposite  : 
His  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair  ; 


THE    S?ANISH    GYPSY.  165 

His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 

Of  rage  and  hesitancy.     All  the  way 

Behind  him  he  had  trodden  confident, 

Ruling  munificently  in  his  thought 

This  Gypsy  father.     Now  the  father  stood 

Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 

As  a  celestial  portent.     Backward  lay 

The  traversed  road,  the  town's  forsaken  wall 

The  risk,  the  daring  ;  all  around  him  now 

Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 

Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 

Was  sweeping  him  resistless;  save  where  she 

Gazing  stretched  forth  her  tender  hands,  that  hurt 

Like  parting  kisses.     Then  at  last  he  spoke.] 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  can  never  take  those  hands  in  mine. 
Then  let  them  go  forever  ! 

FEDALMA. 

It  must  be. 

We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 
By  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand, 
With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  double  strength 
We  must  be  only  joined  by  pains  divine 
Of  spirits  blent  in  mutual  memories. 
Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  love  still  lives, 

And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness, 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love  : 
Loving  the  strong,  they  can  forsake  the  strong  ; 
Man  clings  because  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.     I  can  never  turn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difficult  wandering  ; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storn\ 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness, 
Yet  live  away  from  you.     I  should  feel  naught 
But  your  imagined  pains  ;  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears, 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 
Nd,  I  will  never  leave  you  ! 
ZARCA. 

My  lord  Duke, 


§06  THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech, 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command, 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.     But  now, 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 
Unfitting  times  of  action.     You  are  here 
With  the  safe-conduct  of  that  trust  you  showed 
Coming  unguarded  to  the  Gypsy's  camp. 
I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 
As  well  as  honor ;  but  my  utmost  power 
Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 
Within  the  tents  that  keep  the  northward  lines 
And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 
Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  if  my  words 

Were  meant  for  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 
Into  the  current  ?  It  is  not  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  and  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  bandied  in  a  madrigal. 
I  spoke  in  action  first :  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalma.     Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot, 
Claiming  alone  fulfillment  of  her  vows 
As  my  betrothed  wife. 

FEDALMA  (wresting  herself  from  him,  and  standing  opposite 
with  a  look  of  terror], 

Nay,  Silva,  nay  ! 
You  could  not  live  so — spring  from  your  high  place— 

DON   SILVA. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.     And  you,  chief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

ZARCA. 

Strong  words,  my  lord  ) 

Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 
The  glowing  metal :  they  must  shape  your  life. 
That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities, 
Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
Wholly  a  Zincala  :  share  our  wanderings, 


-fllE    SPANISH   GYPSY.  l6f 

And  be  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter's  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe  ;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us  ;  rest  within  our  camp, 
Nevermore  hold  command  of  Spanish  men, 
And  keep  my  orders.     See,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many-winding  chain — a  heavy  chain. 

DON   SILVA. 

I  have  but  one  resolve  :  let  the  rest  follow. 
What  is  my  rank  ?  To-morrow  it  will  be  filled 
By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carrion  bird, 
Waiting  for  death.     I  shall  be  no  more  missed 
Than  waves  are  missed  that  leaping  on  the  rock 
Find  there  a  bed  and  rest.     Life's  a  vast  sea 
That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail, 
Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are  chang- 
ing. 

And  I  have  said  it  :  she  shall  be  my  people, 
And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 
She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  alone. 
I  will  elect  my  deeds  !  and  be  the  liege 
Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  that  good  alone 
I  have  discerned  and  chosen. 

ZARCA. 

Our  poor  faith. 

Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  has  made  for  us.     And  you,  my  lord, 
Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  day's  space. 
I  march  perforce  to-night  ;  you,  if  you  will, 
Under  a  Gypsy  guard,  can  keep  the  heights 
With  silent  Time  that  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitable — take  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leave  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  do  I  hear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
Ring  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you  ?    You  would  put  me  off, 
And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance  ?  No  ! 
We  will  complete  our  pledges.     I  will  take 
That  oath  which  binds  not  me  alone,  but  you. 
To  join  my  life  forever  with  Fedalma's. 


|68  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

ZARCA. 

I  wrangle  not — time  presses.     But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights ; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Agreed  to  alL 
ZARCA. 

Then  I  will  give  the  summons  to  our  camp. 
We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 
After  our  wonted  fashion. 

[Exit  ZARCA.] 

(SILVA  takes  FED  ALMA'S  hands.] 
FEDALMA. 

O  my  lord  ! 

I  think  the  earth  is  trembling  :  naught  is  firm. 
Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 
Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Here  in  this  valley  ?  Did  the  outer  air 
Vibrate  to  fatal  words,  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  soul  ?  You — join — our  tribe? 

DON  SILVA. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 
That  you  would  die — that  were  an  easy  task 
For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 
But  so  to  live  with  me-  -you,  used  to  rule — 
You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes  : 
His  presence  is  subjection.     Go,  my  lord  ! 
Fly,  while  there  yet  is  time.     Wait  not  to  speak. 
I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love — 
Would  keep  no  vows  to  you 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  too  late. 

You  shall  not  thrust  me  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  yau.    And  what  good  ?    Why,  to  face 
Your  absence — all  the  want  that  drove  me  forth — 
To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyrannous  friend 


THE   SPANISH    GYPSY.  169 

Than  any  uncowled  father.     Life  at  least 
Gives  choice  of  ills  ;  forces  me  to  defy, 
But  shall  not  force  me  to  a  weak  defiance. 
The  power  that  threatened  you,  to  master  me, 
That  scorches  like  a  cave-hid  dragoon's  breath, 
Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 
Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to — most  defy. 
Your  father  has  a  chieftain's  ends,  befitting 
A  soldier's  eye  and  arm  :  were  he  as  strong 
As  the  Moor's  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 
Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  fame 
Among  the  infidels.     Let  him  command, 
For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 
Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me : 
I  would  straight  go  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls, 
Challenge  their  bravest  and  embrace  swift  death. 
The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 
Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell 
Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshipers, 
And  let  them  feed  on  lies.     I'll  rather  trust 
They  love  you  and  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 

FEDALMA. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
And  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.     Since  then 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love's  happiness  is  not  accursed. 
My  father  shook  my  soul  awake.     And  you — 
The  bonds  Fedalma  may  not  break  for  you, 
I  cannot  joy  that  you  should  break  for  her. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 
Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Than  steeds  and  armor ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Will  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.     Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God's  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 

See  where  your  father  comes  and  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love  ; 
The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire. 
This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world, 
Where  we  have  found  each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


I7O  THE    SPANIZII    GYPSY. 

BOOK  IV. 

Now  twice  the  day  had  sunk  from  off  the  hills 

While  Silva  kept  his  watch  there,  with  the  band 

Of  stalwart  Gypsies.     When  the  sun  was  high 

He  slept ;  then,  waking,  strained  impatient  eyes 

To  catch  the  promise  of  some  moving  form 

That  might  be  Juan — Juan  who  went  and  came 

To  soothe  two  hearts,  and  claimed  naught  for  his  own 

Friend  more  divine  than  all  divinities, 

Quenching  his  human  thirst  in  others'  joy. 

All  through  the  lingering  nights  and  pale  chill  dawns 

Juan  had  hovered  near ;  with  delicate  sense, 

As  of  some  breath  from  every  changing  mood, 

Had  spoken  or  kept  silence  ;  touched  his  lute 

To  hint  of  melody,  or  poured  brief  strains 

That  seemed  to  make  all  sorrows  natural, 

Hardly  worth  weeping  for,  since  life  was  short, 

And  shared  by  loving  souls.     Such  pity  welled 

Within  the  minstrel's  heart  of  light-tongued  Juan 

For  this  doomed  man,  who  with  dream-shrouded  eyes 

Had  stepped  into  a  torrent  as  a  brook, 

Thinking  to  ford  it  and  return  at  will. 

And  now  waked  helpless  in  the  eddying  flood, 

Hemmed  by  its  raging  hurry.     Once  that  thought, 

How  easy  wandering  is,  how  hard  and  strict 

The  homeward  way,  had  slipped  from  reverie 

Into  low-murmured  song — (brief  Spanish  song 

'Scaped  him  as  sighs  escape  from  other  men)  : 

Push  off  the  boat, 
Quit,  quit  the  shore, 

The  stars  will  guide  us  back  : — 
O  gathering  cloud, 
O  wide,  wide  sea, 

O  waves  that  keep  no  track  I 

On  through  the  pines  ! 
The  pillared  woods, 

Where  silence  breathes  sweet  breath  : — • 
O  labyrinth, 

O  sunless  gloom, 

The  other  side  of  death  t 

Such  plaintiff  song  had  seemed  to  please  the  Duke — 
Had  seemed  to  melt  all  voices  of  reproach 


THE    EFAN-.7I:    CTP3Y. 

To  sympathetic  sadness ;  but  his  moods 
Had  grown  more  fitful  with  the  growing  hours, 
And  this  soft  murmur  had  the  iterant  voice 
Of  heartless  Echo,  whom  no  pain  can  move 
To  say  aught  else  than  we  have  said  to  her. 
He  spoke,  impatient :  "  Juan,  cease  thy  song. 
Our  whimpering  poesy  and  small-paced  tunes 
Have  no  more  utterance  than  the  cricket's  chirp 
For  souls  that  carry  heaven  and  hell  within." 
Then  Juan,  lightly  :  "  True,  my  lord,  I  chirp 
For  lack  of  soul ;  some  hungry  poets  chirp 
For  lack  of  bread.     'Twere  wiser  to  sit  down 
And  count  the  star-seed,  till  I  fell  asleep 
With  the  cheap  wine  of  pure  stupidity." 
And  Silva  checked  by  courtesy  :  "  Nay,  Juan, 
Were  speech  once  good,  thy  song  were  best  of  s 
I  meant,  all  life  is  but  poor  mockery  ; 
Action,  place,  power,  the  visible,  wide  world 
Are  tattered  masquerading  of  this  self, 
This  pulse  of  conscious  mystery  ;  all  change, 
Whether  to  high  or  low,  is  change  of  rags. 
But  for  her  love,  I  would  not  take  a  good 
Save  to  burn  out  in  battle,  in  a  flame 
Of  madness  that  would  feel  no  mangled  limbs, 
And  die  not  knowing  death,  but  passing  straight 
— Well,  well,  to  other  flames — in  purgatory." 
Keen  Juan's  ear  caught  the  self-discontent 
That  vibrated  beneath  the  changing  tones 
Of  life-contemning  scorn.     Gently  he  said  : 
"  But  with  her  love,  my  lord,  the  world  deserves 
A  higher  rate  ;  were  it  but  masquerade, 
The  rags  were  surely  worth  the  wearing  ?  "     "  Yc 
No  misery  shall  force  me  to  repent 
That  I  have  loved  her." 

So  with  willful  talk, 

Fencing  the  wounded  soul  from  beating  winds 
Of  truth  that  came  unasked,  companionship 
Made  the  hours  lighter.     And  the  Gypsy  guard, 
Trusting  familiar  Juan,  were  content, 
At  friendly  hint  from  him,  to  still  their  songs 
And  busy  jargon  round  the  nightly  fires. 
Such  sounds  the  quick-conceiving  poet  knew 
Would  strike  on  Silva's  agitated  soul 
Like  mocking  repetition  of  the  oath 


17 2  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

That  bound  hira  in  strange  clanship  with  the  tribe 
Of  human  panthers,  flame-eyed,  lithe-limbed,  fierce, 
Unrecking  of  time-woven  subtleties 
And  high  tribunals  of  a  phantom-world. 

But  the  third  day,  though  Silva  southward  gazed 

Till  all  the  shadows  slanted  toward  him,  gazed 

Till  all  the  shadows  died,  no  Juan  came. 

Now  in  his  stead  came  loneliness,  and  Thought 

Inexorable,  fastening  with  firm  chain 

What  is  to  what  hath  been.     Now  awful  Night, 

The  prime  ancestral  mystery,  came  down 

Past  all  the  generations  of  the  stars, 

And  visited  his  soul  with  touch  more  close 

Than  when  he  kept  that  younger,  briefer  watch 

Under  the  church's  roof  beside  his  arms, 

And  won  his  knighthood. 

Well,  this  solitude 

This  company  with  the  enduring  universe, 
Whose  mighty  silence  carrying  all  the  past 
Absorbs  our  history  as  with  a  breath, 
Should  give  him  more  assurance,  make  him  strong 
In  all  contempt  of  that  poor  circumstance 
Called  human  life — customs  and  bonds  and  laws 
Wherewith  men  make  a  better  or  a  worse, 
Like  children  playing  on  a  barren  mound 
Feigning  a  thing  to  strive  for  or  avoid. 
Thus  Silva  argued  with  his  many-voiced  self, 
Whose  thwarted  needs,  like  angry  multitudes, 
Lured  from  the  home  that  nurtured  them  to  strength, 
Made  loud  insurgence.     Thus  he  called  on  Thought, 
On  dexterous  Thought,  with  its  swift  alchemy 
To  change  all  forms,  dissolve  all  prejudice 
Of  man's  long  heritage,  and  yield  him  up 
A  crude  fused  world  to  fashion  as  he  would. 
Thought  played  him  double  ;  seemed  to  wear  the  yoke 
Of  sovereign  passion  in  the  noon-day  height 
Of  passion's  prevalence  ;  but  served  anon 
As  tribune  to  the  larger  soul  which  brought 
Loud-mingled  cries  from  every  human  need 
That  ages  had  instructed  into  life. 
He  could  not  grasp  Night's  black  blank  mystery 
And  wear  it  for  a  spiritual  garb 
Creed-proof  :  he  shuddered  at  its  passionless  touch. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  173 

On  solitary  souls,  the  universe 

Looks  down  inhospitable  ;  the  human  heart 

Finds  nowhere  shelter  but  in  human  kind. 

He  yearned  toward  images  that  had  breath  in  them 

That  sprang  warm  palpitant  with  memories 

From  streets  and  altars,  from  ancestral  homes 

Banners  and  trophies  and  the  cherishing  rays 

Of  shame  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

These  made  the  speech  articulate  of  his  soul, 

That  could  not  move  to  utterance  of  scorn 

Save  in  words  bred  by  fellowship  ;  could  not  feel 

Resolve  of  hardest  constancy  to  love 

The  firmer  for  the  sorrows  of  the  loved, 

Save  by  concurrent  energies  high-wrought 

To  sensibilities  transcending  sense 

Through  close  community,  and  long-shared  pains 

Of  far-off  generations.     All  in  vain 

He  sought  the  outlaw's  strength,  and  made  a  right 

Contemning  that  hereditary  right 

Which  held  dim  habitations  in  his  frame, 

Mysterious  haunts  of  echoes  old  and  far, 

The  voice  divine  of  human  loyalty. 

At  home,  among  his  people,  he  had  played 

In  skeptic  ease  with  saints  and  litanies, 

And  thunders  of  the  church  that  deadened  fell 

Through  screens  of  priests  plethoric.     Awe,  unscathed 

By  deeper  trespass,  slept  without  a  dream. 

But  for  such  trespass  as  made  outcasts,  still 

The  ancient  furies  lived  with  faces  new 

And  lurked  with  lighter  slumber  than  of  old 

O'er  Catholic  Spain,  the  land  of  sacred  oaths 

That  might  be  broken. 

Now  the  former  life 

Of  close-linked  fellowship,  the  life  that  made 
His  full-formed  self,  as  the  impregnate  sap 
Of  years  successive  frames  the  full-branched  tree- 
Was  present  in  one  whole  ;  and  that  great  trust 
His  deed  had  broken  turned  reproach  on  him 
From  faces  of  all  witnesses  who  heard 
His  uttered  pledges  ;  saw  him  hold  high  place 
Centring  reliance  ;  use  rich  privilege 
That  bound  him  like  a  victim-nourished  god 
By  tacit  covenant  to  shield  and  bless  ; 
Assume  the  cross  and  take  his  knightly  oath 


174  — -    CPANiei:    GYPSY. 

Mature,  deliberate  ;  faces  human  all, 
And  some  divine  as  well  as  human  ;  His 
Who  hung  supreme,  the  suffering  Man  divine 
Above  the  altar  ;  Hers,  the  Mother  pure 
Whose  glance  informed  his  masculine  tenderness 
With  deepest  reverence  ;  the  archangel  armed, 
Trampling  man's  enemy ;  all  heroic  forms 
That  fill  the  world  of  faith  with  voices,  hearts, 
And  high  companionship,  to  Silva  now 
Made  but  one  inward  and  insistent  world 
With  faces  of  his  peers,  with  court  and  hall 
And  deference,  and  reverent  vassalage, 
And  filial  pieties — one  current  strong, 
The  warmly  mingled  life-blood  of  his  mind, 
Sustaining  him  even  when  he  idly  played 
With  rules,  beliefs,  charges,  and  ceremonies 
As  arbitrary  fooling.     Such  revenge 
Is  wrought  by  the  long  travail  of  mankind 
On  him  who  scorns  it,  and  would  shape  his  life 
Without  obedience. 

But  his  warrior's  pride 

Would  take  no  wounds  save  on  the  breast.     He  faced 
The  fatal  crowd  :  "  I  never  shall  repent ! 
If  I  have  sinned,  my  sin  was  made  for  me 
By  men's  perverseness.     There's  no  blameless  life 
Save  for  the  passionless,  no  sanctities 
But  have  the  self-same  roof  and  props  with  crime, 
Or  have  their  roots  close  interlaced  with  wrong. 
If  I  had  loved  her  less,  been  more  a  craven, 
I  had  kept  my  place  and  won  the  easy  praise 
Of  a  true  Spanish  noble.     But  I  loved, 
And,  loving,  dared — not  Death  the  warrior 
But  Infamy  that  binds  and  strips,  and  holds 
The  brand  and  lash.     I  have  dared  all  for  her. 
She  was  my  good — what  othea  men  call  heaven, 
And  for  the  sake  of  it  bear  penances  ; 
Nay,  some  of  old  were  baited,  tortured,  flayed 
To  win  their  heaven.     Heaven  was  their  good, 
She,  mine.     And  I  have  braved  for  her  all  fires 
Certained  or  threatened  ;  for  I  go  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  expiation — far  away 
From  sacramental  blessing.     Does  God  bless 
No  outlaw  ?    Shut  his  absolution  fast 
In  human  breath  ?    Is  there  no  God  for  me 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  175 

Save  him  whose  cross  I  have  forsaken  ? — Well, 

I  am  forever  exiled — but  with  her ! 

She  is  dragged  out  into  the  wilderness ; 

I,  with  my  love,  will  be  her  providence. 

I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  good  or  ill, 

A  right  to  damn  myself  !     The  ill  is  mine. 

I  never  will  repent  ! "     *     *     * 

Thus  Silva,  inwardly  debating,  all  his  ear 

Turned  into  audience  of  a  twofold  mind ; 

For  even  in  tumult  full-fraught  consciousness 

Had  plenteous  being  for  a  self  aloof 

That  gazed  and  listened,  like  a  soul  in  dreams 

Weaving  the  wondrous  tale  it  marvels  at 

But  oft  the  conflict  slackened,  oft  strong  love 

With  tidal  energy  returning  laid 

All  other  restlessness  ;  Fedalma  came, 

And  with  her  wsionary  presence  brought 

What  seemed  the  waking  in  the  warm  spring  morn. 

He  still  was  pacing  on  the  stony  earth 

Under  the  deepening  night ;  the  fresh-lit  fires 

Were  flickering  on  dark  forms  and  eyes  that  met 

His  forward  and  his  backward  tread ;  but  she, 

She  was  within  him,  making  his  whole  self 

Mere  correspondence  with  her  image  ;  sense, 

In  all  its  deep  recesses  where  it  keeps 

The  mystic  stores  of  ecstasy,  was  turned 

To  memory  that  killed  the  hour,  like  wine. 

Then  Silva  said,  "  She,  by  herself,  is  life. 

What  was  my  joy  before  I  loved  her — what 

Shall  heaven  lure  us  with,  love  being  lost  ?  " — 

For  he  was  young. 

But  now  around  the  fires 
The  Gypsy  band  felt  freer;  Juan's  song 
Was  no  more  there,  nor  Juan's  friendly  ways 
For  links  of  amity  'twixt  their  wild  mood 
And  this  strange  brother,  this  pale  Spanish  duke, 
Who  with  their  Gypsy  badge  upon  his  breast 
Took  readier  place  within  their  alien  hearts 
As  a  marked  captive,  who  would  fain  escape. 
And  Nadar,  who  commanded  them,  had  known 
The  prison  in  Bedmar.     So  now,  in  talk 
Foreign  to  Spanish  ears,  they  said  their  minds, 
Discussed  their  chief's  intent,  the  lot  marked  out 
For  this  new  brother.     Would  he  wed  their  queen  ? 


176  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

And  some  denied,  saying  their  queen  would  wed 
Only  a  Gypsy  duke — one  who  would  join 
,      Their  bands  in  Telemsan.     But  others  thought 
Young  Hassan  was  to  wed  her;  said  their  chief 
Would  never  trust  this  noble  of  Castile, 
Who  in  his  very  swearing  was  forsworn. 
And  then  one  fell  to  chanting,  in  wild  notes 
Recurrent  like  the  moan  of  outshut  winds, 
The  adjuration  they  were  wont  ;o  use 
To  any  Spaniard  who  would  j-yjn  their  tribe  : 
Words  of  plain  Spanish,  lately  stirred  anew 
And  ready  at  new  impulse.     Soon  the  rest, 
Drawing  to  the  stream  of  sound,  made  unisoa 
Higher  and  lower,  till  the  tidal  sweep 
Seemed  to  assail  the  Duke  and  close  him  round 
With  force  daemonic.     All  debate  till  now 
Had  wrestled  with  the  urgence  of  that  oath 
Already  broken  ;  now  the  newer  oath 
Thrust  its  loud  presence  on  him.     He  stood  still, 
Close  bated  by  loud-barking  thoughts — fierce  hounds 
Of  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past. 

The  ZINC  A  LI  sing 

Brother  hear  and  take  the  curse  ^ 

Curse  of  soul's  and  body's  throes, 

If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes. 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes, 

Turn  false  Ztncalo  t 

May  you  be  accurst 
By  hunger  and  by  thirst 
By  spiked pangs ; 
Starvation's  fangs 
Clutching  you  alone 

When  none  but  peering  vultures  hear  your  moan. 
Curst  by  burning  hands, 
Curst  by  aching  brow, 
When  on  sea-wide  sands 

fever  lays  you  low  j 
By  the  maddening  brain 
When  the  running  waters  glistens, 
And  the  deaf  ear  listens,  listens, 
Prisoned  fire  within  the  vein, 
On  the  tongue  and  on  the  lip 
Not  a  sip 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  17f 

From  the  earth  or  skies  ; 
Hot  the  desert  lies 
Pressed  into  your  anguish, 

Narrowing  earth  and  narrowing  sky 
Into  lonely  misery. 
Lonely  may  you  languish 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  nighty 
Hate  the  darkness ,  hate  the  light, 
Pray  and  find  no  ear, 
Feel  no  brother  near 
Till  on  death  you  cry, 
Death  who  passes  by, 
And  anew  you  groan, 

Scaring  the  vultures  all  to  leave  you  living  lone: 

Curst  by  soul's  and  body's  throes 

If  you  love  the  dark  men's  foes, 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  the  dark  men's  woes, 

Turn  false  Zincalo! 
Swear  to  hate  the  cruel  cross, 

The  silver  cross  ! 
Glittering,  laughing  at  the  blood 

Shed  below  it  in  a  flood 
When  it  glitters  over  Moorish  porches  ; 

Laughing  at  the  scent  of  flesh 
When  it  glitters  where  the fagot scorches^ 
Burning  life's  mysterious  mesh  : 
Blood  of  wandering  Israel 
Blood  of  wandering  Ismael ; 
Blood,  the  drink  of  Christian  scorn^ 
Blood  of  murderers,  sons  of  morn 
Where  the  life  of  men  began  : 
Swear  to  hate  the  cross  / — 
Sign  of  all  the  murderers'  foes, 
Sign  of  all  the  murderers1  woes — 

Else  its  curse  light  on  you  ! 
Else  the  curse  upon  you  light 
Of  its  sharp  red-sworded  might. 
May  it  lie  a  blood-red  blight 
On  all  things  within  your  sight: 
On  the  white  haze  of  the  morn, 
On  the  meadows  and  the  corn. 
On  the  sun  and  on  the  moon, 
On  the  clearness  of  the  noon, 
On  the  darkness  of  the  night. 


•78  TEE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

May  it  fill  your  aching  sight— 
Red-cross  sword  and  sword  bl0od-re&— 
Till  it  press  upon  your  head, 
Till  it  lie  within  your  brain. 
Piercing  sharp,  a  cross  of  pain, 
Till  it  tie  upon  your  heart, 

Burning  hot,  a  cross  of  fire, 
Till  from  sense  in  every  part 
Pains  have  clustered  like  a  stinging  swarm 

In  the  cross's  form. 

And  you  see  naught  but  the  cross  of  blood. 
And  you  feel  naught  but  the  cross  of  fire  ; 
Curst  by  all  the  cross's  throes 
Jf  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  ail  our  woes,  ] 
Turn  false  Zdncalo  ! 

A  fierce  delight  was  in  the  Gypsies'  chant ; 
They  thought  no  more  of  Silva,  only  felt 
Like  those  broad-chested  rovers  of  the  night 
Who  pour  exuberant  strength  upon  the  air. 
To  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  hellish  rhythm, 
Revolving  in  long  curves  that  slackened  now, 
Now  hurried,  sweeping  round  again  to  slackness, 
Would  cease  no  more.     What  use  to  raise  his  voioa 
Or  grasp  his  weapon  ?     He  was  powerless  now, 
With  these  new  comrades  of  his  future — he 
Who  had  been  wont  to  have  his  wishes  feared 
And  guessed  at  as  a  hidden  law  for  men. 
Even  the  passive  silence  of  the  night 
That  left  these  howlers  mastery,  even  the  moon, 
Rising  and  staring  with  a  helpless  face, 
Angered  him.     He  was  ready  now  to  fly 
At  some  loud  throat,  and  give  the  signal  so 
For  butchery  of  himself. 

But  suddenly 

The  sounds  that  travelled  toward  no  foreseen  close 
Were  torn  right  off  and  fringed  into  the  night ; 
Sharp  Gypsy  ears  had  caught  the  onward  strain 
Of  kindred  voices  joining  in  the  chant. 
All  started  to  their  feet  and  mustered  close, 
Auguring  long-waited  summons.     It  was  come ; 
The  summons  to  set  forth  and  join  their  chief. 
Fedalma  had  been  called  and  she  was  gone 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  179 

Under  safe  escort,  Juan  following  her  ; 

The  camp — the  women,  children,  and  old  men  - 

Were  moving  slowly  southward  on  the  way 

To  Almeria.     Silva  learned  no  more. 

He  marched  perforce  ;  what  other  goal  was  his 

Than  where  Fedalma  was  ?    And  so  he  marched 

Through  the  dim  passes  and  o'er  rising  hills, 

Not  knowing  whither,  till  the  morning  came. 

The  Moorish  hall  in  the  castle  at  Bedmdr.  The  morning 
twilight  dimly  show  stains  of  blood  on  the  white  marble 
floor ;  yet  there  has  been  a  careful  restoration  of  order 
among  the  sparse  objects  of  furniture.  Stretched  on  mats 
lie  three  corpses,  the  faces  bare,  the  bodies  covered  with  man- 
tles. A  little  way  off,  with  rolled  matting  for  a  pillow,  lies 
ZARCA,  sleeping.  His  chest  and  arms  are  bare  ;  his  weap- 
ons, turban,  mail-shirt  and  other  upper  garments  lie  on  the 
floor  beside  him.  In  the  outer  gallery  Zincali  are  pacing ',  at 
intervals,  past  the  arched  openings. 

ZARCA    (half  rising  and  resting  his  elbow  on  the  pillow  while 

he  looks  round). 

The  morning  !  I  have  slept  for  full  three  hours  ; 
Slept  without  dreams,  save  of  my  daughter's  face. 
Its  sadness  waked  me.     Soon  she  will  be  here, 
Soon  must  outlive  the  worst  of  all  the  pains 
Bred  by  false  nurture  in  an  alien  home — 
As  if  a  lion  in  fangless  infancy 
Learned  love  of  creatures  that  with  fatal  growth 
It  scents  as  natural  prey,  and  grasps  and  tears, 
Yet  with  heart-hunger  yearns  for,  missing  them. 
She  is  a  lioness.     And  they — the  race 
That  robbed  me  of  her — reared  her  to  this  pain. 
He  will  be  crushed  and  torn.     There  was  no  help. 
But  she,  my  child,  will  bear  it.     For  strong  souls 
Live  like  fire-hearted  suns  to  spend  their  strength 
In  farthest  striving  action  ;  breathe  more  free 
In  mighty  anguish  than  in  trivial  ease. 
Her  sad  face  waked  me.     I  shall  meet  it  soon 

Waking 

(He  rises  and  stands  looking  at  the  corpses?) 

As  now  I  look  on  these  pale  dead, 
These  blossonoing  branches  crushed  beneath  the  fall 
Of  that  broad  trunk  to  which  I  laid  my  axe 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

With  fullest  foresight.    So  will  I  ever  face 

In  thought  beforehand  to  its  utmost  reach 

The  consequences  of  my  conscious  deeds ; 

So  face  them  after,  bring  them  to  my  bed, 

And  never  drug  my  soul  to  sleep  with  lies. 

IS  they  are  cruel,  they  shall  be  arraigned 

By  that  true  name  ;  they  shall  be  justified 

By  my  high  purpose,  by  the  clear-seen  good 

That  grew  into  my  vision  as  I  grew, 

And  makes  my  nature's  function,  the  full  pulse 

Of  inbred  kingship.     Catiiolics, 

Arabs  and  Hebrews,  have  their  god  apiece 

To  fight  and  conquer  for  them,  or  be  bruised, 

Like  Allah  now,  yet  keep  avenging  stores 

Of  patient  wrath.     The  Zincali  have  no  god 

Who  speaks  to  them  and  calls  them  his,  unless 

I,  Zarca,  carry  living  in  my  frame 

The  power  divine  that  chooses  them  and  saves. 

Life  and  more  life  unto  the  chosen,  death 

To  all  things  living  that  would  stifle  them  !  " 

So  speaks  each  god  that  makes  a  nation  strong ; 

Burns  trees  and  brutes  and  slays  all  hindering  men. 

The  Spaniards  boast  their  god  the  strongest  now ; 

They  win  most  towns  by  treachery,  make  most  slaves, 

Burn  the  most  vines  and  men,  and  rob  the  most 

I  fight  against  that  strength,  and  in  my  turn 

Slay  these  brave  young  who  duteously  strove. 

Cruel  ?  aye,  it  is  cruel.     But,  how  else  ? 

To  save,  we  kill ;  each  blow  we  strike  at  guilt 

Hurts  innocence  with  its  shock.     Men  might  well  seek 

For  purifying  rites  ;  even  pious  deeds 

Need  washing.     But  my  cleansing  waters  flow 

Solely  from  my  intent. 

turns  away  from  the  bodies  to  where  his  garments  lie,  fart 
does  not  lift  them.) 

And  she  must  suffer ! 

But  she  has  seen  the  unchangeable  and  bowed 
Her  head  beneath  the  yoke.     And  she  will  walk 
No  more  in  chilling  twilight,  for  to-day 
Rises  our  sun.     The  difficult  night  is  past ; 
We  keep  the  bridge  no  more,  but  cross  it ;  march 
Forth  to  a  land  where  all  cur  wars  shall  be 
With  greedy  obstinate  plants  that  will  not  yield 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  l8l 

Fruit  for  their  nurture.     All  our  race  shall  come 

From  north,  west,  east,  a  kindred  multitude, 

And  make  large  fellowship,  and  raise  inspired 

The  shout  divine,  the  unison  of  resolve. 

So  I,  so  she,  will  see  our  race  redeemed. 

And  their  keen  love  of  family  and  tribe 

Shall  no  more  thrive  on  cunning,  hide  and  lurk 

In  petty  arts  of  abject  hunted  life, 

But  grow  heroic  in  the  sanctioning  light, 

And  feed  with  ardent  blood  a  nation's  heart 

That  is  my  work  ;  and  it  is  well  begun. 

On  to  achievement  ! 

(He  takes  up  the  mail-shirt,  and  looks  at  it,  then  throws  if 
down  again) 

No,  I'll  none  of  you  ! 

To-day  there'll  be  no  fighting.  A  few  hours, 
And  I  shall  doff  these  garments  of  the  Moor  ; 
Till  then  I  will  walk  lightly  and  breathe  high. 

SBPHARDO  (appearing  at  the  archway  leading  into  the  outer 
gallery}. 

You  bade  me  wake  you 

ZARCA. 

Welcome,  Doctor  ;  see, 
With  that  small  task  I  did  but  beckon  you 
To  graver  work.     You  know  these  corpses  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes. 

I  would  they  were  not  corpses.     Storms  will  lay 
The  fairest  trees  and  leave  the  withered  stumps. 
This  Alvar  and  the  Duke  were  of  one  age, 
And  very  loving  friends.     I  minded  not 
The  sight  of  Don  Diego's  corpse,  for  death 
Gave  him  some  gentleness,  and  had  he  lived 
I  had  still  hated  him.     But  this  young  Alvar 
Was  doubly  noble,  as  a  gem  that  holds 
Rare  virtues  in  its  lustre  ;  and  his  death 
Will  pierce  Don  Silva  with  a  poisoned  dart 
This  fair  and  curly  youth  was  Arias, 
A  son  of  the  Pachecos  :  this  dark  face 

ZARCA. 
Enough  {  you  know  their  names.     I  had  divined 


lS2  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

\ 

That  they  were  near  the  Duke,  most  like  had  served 
My  daughter,  were  her  friends  ;  so  fescued  them 
From  being  flung  upon  the  heap  of  slain. 
Beseech  you,  Doctor,  if  you  owe  me  aught 
As  having  served  your  people,  take  the  pains 
To  see  these  bodies  buried  decently. 
And  let  their  names  be  writ  above  their  graves, 
As  those  of  brave  young  Spaniards  who  died  well. 
I  needs  must  bear  this  womanhood  in  my  heart — 
Bearing  my  daughter  there.     For  once  she  prayed— 
Twas  at  our  parting — "  When  you  see  fair  hair 
Be  pitiful."     And  I  am  forced  to  look 
On  fair  heads  living  and  be  pitiless. 
Your  service,  Doctor,  will  be  done  to  her. 

SEPHARDO. 

A  service  doubly  dear.     For  these  young  dead, 
And  one  less  happy  Spaniard  who  still  lives, 
Are  offerings  which  I  wrenched  from  out  my  heart, 
Constrained  by  cries  of  Israel  :  while  my  hands 
Rendered  the  victims  at  command,  my  eyes 
Closed  themselves  vainly,  as  if  vision  lay 
Through  those  poor  loopholes  only.     I  will  go 
And  see  the  graves  dug  by  some  cypresses. 

ZARCA. 
Meanwhile  the  bodies  shall  rest  here.     Farewell 

(Exit  SEPHARDO.) 

Nay,  'tis  no  mockery.     She  keeps  me  so 
From  hardening  with  the  hardness  of  my  acts. 
This  Spaniard  shrouded  in  her  love — I  would 
He  lay  here  too  that  I  might  pity  him. 

Morning. — The  Plafa  Santiago  in  Bedmdr.  A  crowd  of 
townsmen  forming  an  outer  circle  :  within,  Zincali  and 
Afoerish  soldiers  drawn  up  round  the  central  space.  On  the 
higher  ground  in  front  of  the  church  a  stake  with  fagots 
heaped,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  gibbet.  Moorish  music. 
ZARCA  enter s^  wearing  his  gold  necklace  with  tJie  Gypsy 
badge  of  the  flaming  torch  over  the  dress  of  a  Moorish  cap- 
tain, accompanied  by  a  small  band  of  armed  Zincali,  who  fall 
aside  and  range  themselves  with  the  other  soldiers  while  he 
takes  his  stand  in  front  of  the  stake  and  gibbet.  The  music 
4 vases,  and  there  is  expectant  silence. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

ZARCA. 

Men  of  Bedmar,  well-wishers,  and  allies, 

Whether  of  Moorish  or  of  Hebrew  blood, 

Who,  being  galled  by  the  hard  Spaniard's  yoke, 

Have  welcomed  our  quick  conquest  as  release, 

I,  Zarca,  chief  of  Spanish  Gypsies,  hold 

By  delegation  of  the  Moorish  king 

Supreme  command  within  this  town  and  fort. 

Nor  will  I,  with  false  show  of  modesty, 

Profess  myself  unworthy  of  this  post. 

For  so  I  should  but  tax  the  giver's  choice. 

And,  as  ye  know,  while  I  was  prisoner  here, 

Forging  the  bullets  meant  for  Moorish  hearts, 

But  likely  now  to  reach  another  mark, 

I  learned  the  secrets  of  the  town's  defence, 

Caught  the  loud  whispers  of  your  discontent, 

And  so  could  serve  the  purpose  of  the  Moor 

As  the  edge's  keenness  serves  the  weapon's  weight. 

My  Zincali,  lynx-eyed  and  lithe  of  limb, 

Tracked  out  the  high  Sierra's  hidden  path, 

Guided  the  hard  ascent,  and  were  the  first 

To  scale  the  walls  and  brave  the  showering  stones. 

In  brief,  I  reached  this  rank  through  service  done 

By  thought  of  mine  and  valor  of  my  tribe, 

Yet  hold  it  but  in  trust,  with  readiness 

To  lay  it  down  ;  for  we — the  Zincali — 

Will  never  pitch  our  tents  again  on  land 

The  Spaniard  grudges  us  ;  we  seek  a  home 

Where  we  may  spread  and  ripen  like  the  corn 

By  blessing  of  the  sun  and  spacious  earth. 

Ye  wish  us  well,  I  think,  and  are  our  friends  ? 

CROWD. 

Long  life  to  Zarca  and  his  Zincali ! 
ZARCA. 

Now,  for  the  cause  of  our  assembling  here. 

Twas  my  command  that  rescued  from  your  hands 

That  Spanish  prior  and  inquisitor 

Whom  in  fierce  retribution  you  had  bound 

And  meant  to  burn,  tied  to  a  planted  cross. 

I  rescued  him  with  promise  that  his  death 

Should  be  more  signal  in  ts  justice — made 

Public  in  fullest  sense,  and  orderly. 


184  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Here,  then,  you  see  the  stake — slow  death  by  fire  ? 

And  there  a  gibbet — swift  death  by  the  cord. 

Now  hear  me,  Moors  and  Hebrews  of  Bedmar, 

Our  kindred  by  the  warmth  of  eastern  blood  ! 

Punishing  cruel  wrong  by  cruelty 

We  copy  Christian  crime.     Vengeance  is  just ; 

Justly  we  rid  the  earth  of  human  fiends 

Who  carry  hell  for  pattern  in  their  souls. 

But  in  high  vengeance  there  is  noble  scorn ; 

It  tortures  not  the  torturer,  nor  gives 

Iniquitous  payment  for  iniquity. 

The  great  avenging  angel  does  not  crawl 

To  kill  the  serpent  with  a  mimic  fang  ; 

He  stands  erect  with  sword  of  keenest  edge 

That  slays  like  lightning.     So,  too,  we  will  slay 

The  cruel  man ;  slay  him  because  he  works 

Woe  to  mankind.     And  I  have  given  command 

To  pile  these  fagots,  not  to  burn  quick  flesh, 

But  for  a  sign  of  that  dire  wrong  to  men 

Which  arms  our  wrath  with  justice.     While,  to  show 

This  Christian  worshipper  that  we  obey 

A  better  law  than  his,  he  shall  be  led 

Straight  to  the  gibbet  and  to  swiftest  death. 

For  I,  the  chieftain  of  the  Gypsies,  will, 

My  people  shed  no  blood  but  what  is  shed 

In  heat  of  battle  or  in  judgment  strict 

With  calm  deliberation  on  the  right. 

Such  is  my  will,  and  if  it  pleases  you — well. 

CROWD. 
It  pleases  us.     Long  life  to  Zarca  ! 

ZARCA. 

Hark  ! 

The  bell  is  striking,  and  they  bring  even  now 
The  prisoner  from  the  fort.     What,  Nadar  ? 

NADAR  (has  appeared,  cutting  the  crowd,  and  advancing 
toward  ZARCA  till  he  is  near  enough  to  speak  in  an  under- 
tone}. 

Chief, 

I  have  obeyed  your  word,  have  followed  it 
As  water  does  the  furrow  in  the  rock. 

ZARCA. 
Your  band  is  here  ? 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  18$ 

NADAR. 
Yes,  and  the  Spaniard  too. 

ZARCA. 
'  Twas  so  I  ordered. 

NADAR. 

Ay,  but  this  sleek  hound. 
Who  slipped  his  collar  off  to  join  the  wolves, 
Has  still  a  heart  for  none  but  kennelled  brutes. 
He  rages  at  the  taking  of  the  town, 
Says  all  his  friends  are  butchered  ;  and  one  corpse 
He  stumbled  on — well,  I  would  sooner  be 
A  murdered  Gypsy's  dog,  and  howl  for  him, 
Than  be  this  Spaniard.     Rage  has  made  him  whiter. 
One  townsman  taunted  him  with  his  escape, 
And  thanked  him  for  so  favoring  us 

ZARCA. 

Enough. 

You  gave  him  my  command  that  he  should  wait 
Within  the  castle,  till  I  saw  him  ? 

NADAR. 

Yes. 

But  he  defied  me,  broke  away,  ran  loose 
I  know  not  whither  ;  he  may  soon  be  here. 
I  came  to  warn  you,  lest  he  work  us  harm. 

ZARCA. 

Fear  not,  I  know  the  road  I  travel  by  : 
Its  turns  are  no  surprises.     He  who  rules 
Must  humor  full  as  much  as  he  commands  ; 
Must  let  men  vow  impossibilities  ; 
Grant  folly's  prayers  that  hinder  folly's  wish 
And  serve  the  ends  of  wisdom.     Ah,  he  comes  ! 

[Sweeping  like  some  pale  herald  from  the  dead, 
Whose  shadow-nurtured  eyes,  dazed  by  full  light, 
See  nought  without,  but  give  reverted  sense 
To  the  soul's  imagery,  Silva  came, 
The  wondering  people  parting  wide  to  get 
Continuous  sight  of  him  as  he  passed  on — 
This  high  hidalgo,  who  through  blooming  years 
Had  shone  on  men  with  planetary  calm, 
Believed-in  with  all  sacred  images 
And  saints  that  must  be  taken  as  they 


l86  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Though  rendering  meagre  service  for  men's  praise  : 
Bareheaded  now,  carrying  an  unsheathed  sword, 
And  on  his  breast,  where  late  he  bore  the  cross, 
Wearing  the  Gypsy  badge  ;  his  form  aslant, 
Driven,  it  seemed,  by  some  invisible  chase, 
Right  to  the  front  of  Zarca.     There  he  paused.] 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel,  devilish  1 — 
Relentless  as  a  curse  that  once  let  loose 
From  lips  of  wrath,  lives  bodiless  to  destroy, 
And  darkly  traps  a  man  in  nets  of  guilt 
Which  could  not  weave  themselves  in  open  day 
Before  his  eyes.     Oh,  it  was  bitter  wrong 
To  hold  this  knowledge  locked  within  your  mind, 
To  stand  with  waking  eyes  in  broadest  light, 
And  see  me,  -dreaming,  shed  my  kindred's  blood. 
'Tis  horrible  that  men  with  hearts  and  hands 
Should  smile  in  silence  like  the  firmament 
And  see  a  fellow-mortal  draw  a  lot 
On  which  themselves  have  written  agony  ! 
Such  injury  has  no  redress,  no  healing 
Save  what  may  lie  in  stemming  further  ill. 
Poor  balm  for  maiming  !     Yet  I  come  to  claim  it. 

ZARCA. 

First  prove  your  wrongs,  and  I  will  hear  your  claim. 

Mind,  you  are  not  commander  of  Bedmar, 

Nor  duke,  nor  knight,  nor  any  thing  for  me, 

Save  a  sworn  Gypsy,  subject  with  ray  tribe, 

Over  whose  deeds  my  will  is  absolute. 

You  chose  that  lot,  and  would  have  railed  at  me 

Had  I  refused  it  you  :  I  warned  you  first 

What  oaths  you  had  to  take 

DON  SILVA. 

You  never  warned  me 

That  you  had  linked  yourself  with  Moorish  men 
To  take  this  town  and  fortress  of  Bedmar — 
Slay  my  near  kinsman,  him  who  held  my  place, 
Our  house's  heir  and  guardian — slay  my  friend. 
My  chosen  brother— desecrate  the  church 
Where  once  my  mother  held  £22  in  her  arras, 
Making  the  holy  chrism  b 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  i8| 

With  tear  of  joy  that  fell  upon  my  brow  ! 
You  never  warned 

ZARCA. 

I  warned  you  of  your  oath. 

You  shrank  not,  were  resolved,  were  sure  your  place 
Would  never  miss  you,  and  you  had  your  will. 
I  am  no  priest  and  keep  no  consciences  : 
I  keep  my  own  place  and  my  own  command. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  said  my  place  would  never  miss  me — yes  ! 

A  thousand  Spaniards  died  on  that  same  day 

And  were  not  missed;  their  garments  clothed  the  backs 

That  else  were  bare 

ZARCA. 

But  you  were  just  the  one 
Above  the  thousand,  had  you  known  the  die 
That  fate  was  throwing  then. 

DON   SILVA. 

You  knew  it — yon ! 

With  fiendish  knowledge,  smiling  at  the  end. 
You  knew  what  snares  had  made  my  flying  steps 
Murderous  :  you  let  me  lock  my  soul  with  oaths 
Which  your  acts  made  a  hellish  sacrament 
I  say,  you  knew  this  as  a  fiend  would  know  it, 
And  let  me  damn  myself. 

ZARCA. 

The  deed  was  done 

Before  you  took  your  oath,  or  reached  our  camp,— 
Done  when  you  slipped  in  secret  from  the  post 
'Twas  yours  to  keep,  and  not  to  meditate 
If  others  might  not  fill  it.     For  your  oath, 
What  man  is  he  who  brandishes  a  sword 
In  darkness,  kills  his  friends,  and  rages  then 
Against  the  night  that  kept  him  ignorant  ? 
Should  I,  for  one  unstable  Spaniard,  quit 
My  steadfast  ends  as  father  and  as  chief  ; 
Renounce  my  daughter  and  my  people's  hope. 
Lest  a  deserter  should  be  made  ashamed  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
Your  daughter — O  great  God  !  I  vent  but  madness. 


188  THS      SPANISH      GYPSY. 

The  past  will  never  change.     I  come  to  stem 
Harm  that  may  yet  be  hindered.     Chief — this  stake- 
Tell  me  who  is  to  die  !     Are  you  not  bound 
Yourself  to  him  you  took  in  fellowship  ? 
The  town  is  yours  ;  let  me  but  save  the  blood 
That  still  is  warm  in  men  who  were  my 

ZARCA. 

Peace  ! 

They  bring  the  prisoner. 

[Zarca  waved  his  arm 
With  head  averse,  in  peremptory  sign 
That  'twixt  them  now  there  should  be  space  and  silence. 
Most  eyes  had  turned  to  where  the  prisoner 
Advanced  among  his  guards  ;  and  Silva  too 
Turned  eagerly,  all  other  striving  quelled 
By  striving  with  the  dread  lest  he  should  see 
His  thought  outside  him.     And  he  saw  it  there. 
The  prisoner  was  Father  Isidor  : 
The  man  whom  once  he  fiercely  had  accused 
As  author  of  his  misdeeds — whose  designs 
Had  forced  him  into  fatal  secrecy. 
The  imperious  and  inexorable  Will 
Was  yoked,  and  he  who  had  been  pitiless 
To  Silva's  love,  was  led  to  pitiless  death. 
O  hateful  victory  of  blind  wishes — prayers 
Which  hell  had  overheard  and  swift  fulfilled ! 
The  triumph  was  a  torture,  turning  all 
The  strength  of  passion  into  strength  of  pain. 
Remorse  was  born  within  hint,  that  dire  birth 
Which  robs  all  else  of  nature — cancerous, 
Forcing  each  pulse  to  feed  its  anguish,  turning 
All  sweetest  residues  of  healthy  life 
To  fibrous  clutches  of  slow  misery. 
Silva  had  but  rebelled — he  was  not  free  ; 
And  all  the  subtle  cords  that  bound  his  soul 
Were  tightened  by  the  strain  of  one  rash  leap 
Made  in  defiance.     He  accused  no  more, 
But  dumbly  shrank  before  accusing  throngs 
Of  thoughts,  the  impetuous  recurrent  rush 
Of  all  his  past-created,  unchanged  self. 
The  Father  came  bareheaded,  frocked,  a  rope 
Around  his  neck, — but  clad  with  majesty, 
The  strength  of  resolute  undivided  souls 


THE     SPANISH      GYPSY.  189 

Who,  owning  law,  obey  it.     In  his  hand 

He  bore  a  crucifix,  and  praying,  gazed 

Solely  on  that  white  image.     But  his  guards 

Parted  in  front,  and  paused  as  they  approached 

The  centre  where  the  stake  was.     Isidor 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  look  around  him — calm, 

Prepared  to  speak  last  words  of  willingness 

To  meet  his  death — last  words  of  faith  unchanged, 

That,  working  for  Christ's  kingdom,  he  had  wrought 

Righteously.     But  his  glance  met  Silva's  eyes 

And  drew  him.     Even  images  of  stone 

Look  living  with  reproach  on  him  who  maims, 

Profanes,  defiles  them.     Silva  penitent 

Moves  forward,  would  have  knelt  before  the  man 

Who  still  was  one  with  all  the  sacred  things 

That  came  back  on  him  in  their  sacredness, 

Kindred,  and  oaths,  and  awe,  and  mystery. 

But  at  the  sight,  the  Father  thrust  the  cross 

With  deprecating  act  before  him,  and  his  face 

Pale-quivering,  flashed  out  horror  like  white  light 

Flashed  from  the  angel's  sword  that  dooming  drave 

The  sinner  to  the  wilderness.     He  spoke.] 

FATHER   ISIDOR. 

Back  from  me,  traitorous  and  accursed  man ! 

Defile  not  me,  who  grasp  the  holiest, 

With  touch  or  breath  !     Thou  foulest  murderer ! 

Fouler  than  Cain  who  struck  his  brother  down 

In  jealous  rage,  thou  for  thy  base  delight 

Hast  oped  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come  and  tear 

Uncounted  brethren,  weak  and  strong  alike, 

The  helpless  priest,  the  warrior  all  unarmed 

Against  a  faithless  leader :  on  thy  head 

Will  rest  the  sacrilege,  on  thy  soul  the  blood. 

These  blind  barbarians,  misbelievers,  Moors, 

Are  but  as  Pilate  and  his  soldiery  ; 

Thou,  Judas,  weighted  with  that  heaviest  crime 

Which  deepens  hell !     I  warned  you  of  this  end, 

A  traitorous  leader,  false  to  God  and  man, 

A  knight  apostate,  you  shall  soon  behold 

Above  your  people's  blood  the  light  of  flames 

Kindled  by  you  to  burn  me — burn  the  flesh 

Twin  with  your  father's.     Oh,  most  wretched  man  ! 

Whose  memory  shall  be  of  broken  oaths — 


*9°  THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Broken  for  lust — I  turn  away  mine  eyes 
Forever  from  you.     See,  the  stake  is  ready 
And  I  am  ready  too. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  shall  not  be  ! 

(liaising  his  sword,  he  rushes  in  front  of  the  guards  who  are 
advancing,  and  impedes  them.) 

If  you  are  human,  chief,  hear  my  demand  ! 
Stretch  not  my  soul  upon  the  endless  rack 
Of  this  man's  torture  ! 

ZARCA. 

Stand  aside,  my  lord ! 

Put  up  your  sword.     You  vowed  obedience 
To  me,  your  chief.     It  was  your  latest  vow. 

DON  SILVA. 

No  !  hew  me  from  the  spot,  or  fasten  me 
Amid  the  fagots,  too,  if  he  must  burn. 

ZARCA. 

What  should  befall  that  persecuting  monk 

Was  fixed  before  you  came  ;  no  cruelty, 

No  nicely  measured  torture,  weight  for  weight 

Of  injury,  no  luscious-toothed  revenge 

That  justifies  the  injurer  by  its  joy  ; 

I  seek  but  rescue  and  security 

For  harmless  men,  and  such  security 

Means  death  to  vipers  and  inquisitors. 

These  fagots  shall  but  innocently  blaze 

In  sign  of  gladness,  when  this  man  is  dead, 

That  one  more  torturer  has  left  the  earth. 

'Tis  not  for  infidels  to  burn  live  men 

And  ape  the  rules  of  Christian  piety. 

This  hard  oppressor  shall  not  die  by  fire  ; 

He  mounts  the  gibbet,  dies  a  speedy  death, 

That,  like  a  transfixed  dragon,  he  may  cease 

To  vex  mankind.     Quick,  guards,  and  clear  the  path ! 

[As  well-trained  hounds  that  hold  their  fleetness  tense 
In  watchful,  loving  fixity  of  dark  eyes, 
And  move  with  movement  of  their  master's  will, 
^SP  Gypsies  with  a  wavelike  swiftness  met 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Around  the  Father,  and  in  wheeling  course 
Passed  beyond  Silva  to  the  gibbet's  foot, 
Behind  their  chieftain.     Sudden  left  alone 
With  weapon  bare,  the  multitude  aloof, 
Silva  was  mazed  in  doubtful  consciousness, 
As  one  who  slumbering  in  the  day  awakes 
From  striving  into  freedom,  and  yet  feels 
His  sense  half  captive  to  intangible  things  ; 
Then  with  a  flush  of  new  decision  sheathed 
His  futile  naked  weapon,  and  strode  quick 
To  Zarca,  speaking  with  a  voice  new-toned, 
The  struggling  soul's  hoarse  suffocated  cry 
Beaeath  the  grappling  anguish  of  despair.] 

DON  SILVA. 

You,  Zincalo,  devil,  blackest  infidel ! 

You  cannot  hate  that  man  as  you  hate  me ! 

Finish  your  torture — take  me — lift  me  up 

And  let  the  crowd  spit  at  me — every  Moor 

Shoot  reeds  at  me,  and  kill  me  with  slow  death 

Beneath  the  midday  fervor  of  the  sun — 

Or  crucify  me  with  a  thieving  hound — 

Slake  your  hate  so,  and  I  will  thank  it :  spare  me 

Only  this  man ! 

ZARCA. 

Madman,  I  hate  you  not. 
But  if  I  did,  my  hate  were  poorly  served 
By  my  device,  if  I  should  strive  to  mix 
A  bitterer  misery  for  you  than  to  taste 
With  leisure  of  a  soul  in  unharmed  limbs 
The  flavor  of  your  folly.     For  my  course, 
It  has  a  goal,  and  takes  no  truant  path 
Because  of  you.     I  am  your  chief :  to  me 
You're  nought  more  than  a  Zincalo  in  revolt. 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I'm  no  Zfncalo  !     I  here  disown 
The  name  I  took  in  madness.     Here  I  tear 
This  badge  away.     I  am  a  Catholic  knight, 
A  Spaniard  who  will  die  a  Spaniard's  death ! 

[Hark  !  while  he  casts  the  badge  upon  the  ground 

And  tramples  on  it,  Silva  hears  a  shout : 

Was  it  a  shout  that  threatened  him  ?     He  looked 


192  THE   SPANISH    GYPSY. 

From  out  the  dizzying  flames  of  his  own  rage 

In  hope  of  adversaries — and  he  saw  above 

The  form  of  Father  Isidor  upswung 

Convulsed  with  martyr  throes ;  and  knew  the  shoot 

For  wonted  exultation  of  the  crowd 

When  malefactors  die — or  saints,  or  heroes. 

And  now  to  him  that  white-frocked  murdered  form 

Which  hanging  judged  him  as  its  murderer, 

Turned  to  a  symbol  of  his  guilt,  and  stirred 

Tremors  till  then  unwaked.     With  sudden  snatch 

At  something  hidden  in  his  breast,  he  strode 

Right  upon  Zarca  :  at  the  instant,  down 

Fell  the  great  chief,  and  Silva,  staggering  back, 

Heard  not  the  Gypsies'  shriek,  felt  not  the  fangs 

Of  their  fierce  grasp — heard,  felt  but  Zarca's  words 

Which  seemed  his  soul  outleaping  in  a  cry 

And  urging  men  to  run  like  rival  waves 

Whose  rivalry  is  but  obedience.] 

ZARCA  (as  he  falls). 
My  daughter  !  call  her  !     Call  my  daughter  ! 

NADAR  (supporting  ZARCA  and  crying  to  the  Gypsies  who  have 
clutched  SILVA). 

Stay! 

Tear  not  the  Spaniard,  tie  him  to  the  stake : 
Hear  what  the  Chief  shall  bid  us — there  is  time  ! 

[Swiftly  they  tied  him,  pleasing  vengeance  so 

With  promise  that  would  leave  them  free  to  watch 

Their  stricken  good,  their  Chief  stretched  helplessly 

Pillowed  upon  the  strength  of  loving  limbs. 

He  heaved  low  moans,  but  would  not  spend  his  breath 

In  useless  words  :  he  waited  till  she  came, 

Keeping  his  life  within  the  citadel 

Of  one  great  hope.     And  now  around  him  closed 

(But  in  wide  circle,  checked  by  loving  fear) 

His  people  all,  holding  their  wails  suppressed 

Lest  death  believed-in  should  be  over-bold  : 

All  life  hung  on  their  Chief — he  would  not  die  ; 

His  image  gone,  there  were  no  wholeness  left 

To  make  a  world  of  for  the  Zincali's  thought 

Eager  they  stood,  but  hushed  ;  the  outer  crowd 

Spoke  only  in  low  murmurs,  and  some  climbed 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  I9J 

And  clung  with  legs  and  arms  on  perilous  coigns, 
Striving  to  see  where  that  colossal  life 
Lay  panting — lay  a  Titan  struggling  still 
To  hold  and  give  the  precious  hidden  fire 
Before  the  stronger  grappled  him.     Above 
The  young  bright  morning  cast  athwart  white  walls 
Her  shadows  blue,  and  with  their  clear-cut  line, 
Mildly  relentless  as  the  dial-hand's, 
Measured  the  shrinking  future  of  an  hour 
Which  held  a  shrinking  hope.     And  all  the  while 
The  silent  beat  of  time  in  each  man's  soul 
Made  aching  pulses. 

But  the  cry,  "  She  comes  !  " 
Parted  the  crowd  like  waters  :  and  she  came. 
Swiftly  as  once  before,  inspired  with  joy, 
She  flashd  across  the  space  and  made  new  light, 
Glowing  upon  the  glow  of  evening, 
So  swiftly  now  she  came,  inspired  with  woe, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  all  her  father's  pain, 
Thrilling  her  as  with  fire  of  rage  divine 
And  battling  energy.     She  knew — saw  all : 
The  stake  with  Silva  bound— her  father  pierced— 
To  this  she  had  been  born  :  a  second  time 
Her  father  called  her  to  the  task  of  life. 

She  knelt  beside  him.     Then  he  raised  himself, 

And  on  her  face  there  flashed  from  his  the  light 

As  of  a  star  that  waned,  but  flames  anew 

In  mighty  dissolution  :  'twas  the  flame 

Of  a  surviving  trust,  in  agony. 

He  spoke  the  parting  prayer  that  was  command, 

Must  sway  her  will,  and  reign  invisibly.] 

ZARCA. 

My  daughter,  you  have  promised — you  will  live 

To  save  our  people.     In  my  garments  here 

I  carry  written  pledges  from  the  Moor  : 

He  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa. 

Your  weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength, 

Winning  more  love 1  cannot  tell  the  end. 

I  held  my  people's  good  within  my  breast. 
Behold,  now  I  deliver  it  to  you. 
See,  it  still  breathes  unstrangled — if  it  dies, 
Let  not  your  failing  will  be  murderer, 


194  '-'::ii     SPANISH     GYPSY, 

Rise,  tell  our  people  now  I  wait  in  pain— 
I  cannot  die  until  I  hear  them  say 
They  will  obey  you. 

[Meek,  she  pressed  her  lips 
With  slow  solemnity  upon  his  brow, 
Sealing  her  pledges.     Firmly  then  she  rose, 
And  met  her  people's  eyes  with  kindred  gaze, 
Dark-flashing,  fired  by  effort  strenuous 
Trampling  on  pain.] 

FEDALMA. 

Ye  Zincali,  all  who  hear  ! 
Your  Chief  is  dying  :  I,  his  daughter  live 
To  do  his  dying  will.     He  asks  you  now 
To  promise  me  obedience  as  your  Queen, 
That  we  may  seek  the  land  he  won  for  us, 
And  live  the  better  life  for  which  he  toiled. 
Speak  now,  and  fill  my  father's  dying  ear 
With  promise  that  you  will  obey  him  dead, 
Obeying  me  his  child. 

[Straightway  arose 

A  shout  of  promise,  sharpening  into  cries 
That  seemed  to  plead  despairingly  with  death.] 

The  ZINCALI, 

We  will  obey  !     Our  Chief  shall  never  die  ! 
We  will  obey  him — will  obey  our  Queen  [ 

[The  shout  unanimous,  the  concurrent  rush 

Of  many  voices,  choiring,  shook  the  air 

With  multitudinous  wave  :  now  rose,  now  fell, 

Then  rose  again,  the  echoes  following  slow, 

As  if  the  scattered  brethren  of  the  tribe 

Had  caught  afar  and  joined  the  ready  vow. 

Then  some  could  hold  no  longer,  but  must  rush 

To  kiss  his  dying  feet,  and  some  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  their  Queen's  garment.     But  she  raised 

Her  hand  to  hush  them.    "  Hark  !  your  Chief  may  speak 

Another  wish."     Quickly  she  kneeled  again 

While  they  upon  the  ground  kept  motionless, 

With  head  outstretched.     They  heard  his  words ;  for 

now, 
Grasping  at  Nadir's  arm,  he  spoke  more  loud, 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY.  I0£ 

As  one  who,  having  fought  and  conquered,  hurls 
His  strength  away  with  hurling  off  his  shield.] 

ZARCA. 

Let  loose  the  Spaniard  !  give  him  back  his  sword  ; 
He  cannot  move  to  any  vengeance  more — 
His  soul  is  locked  'twixt  two  opposing  crimes. 
I  charge  you  to  let  him  go  unharmed  and  free 

Now  through  your  midst. 

[With  that  he  sank  again — 

His  breast  heaved  strongly  tow'rd  sharp  sudden  falls, 
And  all  his  life  seemed  needed  for  each  breath  : 
Yet  once  he  spoke.] 

My  daughter,  lay  your  arm 

Beneath  my  head so bend  and  breathe  on  me. 

I  cannot  see  you  more the  night  is  come. 

Be  strong remember 1  can  only die. 

[His  voice  went  into  silence,  but  his  breast 

Heaved  long  and  moaned  :  its  broad  strength  kept  a  life 

That  heard  nought,  saw  nought,  save  what  once  had 

been, 

And  what  might  be  in  days  and  realms  afar — 
Which  now  in  pale  procession  faded  on 
Toward  the  thick  darkness.     And  she  bent  above 
In  sacramental  watch  to  see  great  Death, 
Companion  of  her  future,  who  would  wear 
Forever  in  her  eyes  her  father's  form. 
And  yet  she  knew  that  hurrying  feet  had  gone 
To  do  the  Chief's  behest,  and  in  her  soul 
He  who  was  once  its  lord  was  being  jarred 
With  loosening  of  cords,  that  would  not  loose 
The  tightening  torture  of  his  anguish.     This — 
Oh.  she  knew  it ! — knew  it  as  martyrs  knew 
The  prongs  that  tore  their  flesh,  while  yet  their  tongues 
Refused  the  ease  of  lies.     In  moments  high 
Space  widens  in  the  soul.     And  so  she  knelt, 
Clinging  with  piety  and  awed  resolve 
Beside  this  altar  of  her  father's  life, 
Seeing  long  travel  under  solemn  suns 
Stretching  beyond  it ;  never  turned  her  eyes, 
Yet  felt  that  Silva  passed  ;  beheld  his  face 
Pale,  vivid,  all  alone,  imploring  her 
Across  black  waters  fathomless. 

And  he  passed 


196  THE    SPANISH    GYPSY. 

The  Gypsies  made  wide  pathway,  shrank  aloof 

As  those  who  fear  to  touch  the  thing  they  hate, 

Lest  hate  triumphant,  mastering  all  the  limbs. 

Should  tear,  bite,  crush,  in  spite  of  hindering  wifl. 

Slowly  he  walked,  reluctant  to  be  safe 

And  bear  dishonored  life  which  none  assailed ; 

Walked  hesitatingly,  all  his  frame  instinct 

With  high-born  spirit,  never  used  to  dread 

Or  crouch  for  smiles,  yet  stung,  yet  quivering 

With  helpless  strength,  and  in  his  soul  convulsed 

By  visions  where  pale  horror  held  a  lamp 

Over  wide-reaching  crime.     Silence  hung  round : 

It  seemed  the  ?la£a  hushed  itself  to  hear 

His  footsteps  and  the  Chief's  deep-dying  breath. 

Eyes  quickened  in  the  stillness,  and  the  light 

Seemed  one  clear  gaze  upon  his  misery. 

And  yet  he  could  not  pass  her  without  pause  : 

One  instant  he  must  pause  and  look  at  her ; 

But  with  that  glance  at  her  averted  head, 

New-urged  by  pain  he  turned  away  and  wents 

Carrying  forever  with  him  what  he  fled — 

Her  murdered  love — her  love,  a  dear  wronged  ghost, 

Facing  him,  beauteous,  'mid  the  throngs  of  helL 

Oh  fallen  and  forsaken !  were  no  hearts 

Amid  that  crowd,  mindful  of  what  had  been  > — 

Hearts  such  as  wait  on  beggared  royalty, 

Or  silent  watch  by  sinners  who  despair  ? 

Silva  had  vanished.     That  dismissed  revenge 

Made  larger  room  for  sorrow  in  fierce  h-arts  ; 

And  sorrow  filled  them.     For  the  chief  vas  dead. 

The  mighty  breast  subsided  slow  to  ca-rm, 

Slow  from  the  face  the  ethereal  spirit  waned, 

As  wanes  the  parting  glory  from  the  heights, 

And  leaves  them  in  their  pallid  majesty. 

Fedalma  kissed  the  marble  lips,  and  said, 

"  He  breathes  no  more."     And  then  a  loud  long  wail, 

Poured  out  upon  the  morning,  made  her  light 

Ghastly  as  smiles  on  some  fair  maniac's  face 

Smiling  unconscious  o'er  her  bridgroom'c  corse. 

The  wailing  men  in  eager  press  closed  round, 

And  made  a  shadowing  pall  beneath  the  sun. 

They  lifted  reverent  the  prostrate  strength, 

Sceptred  anew  by  death.     Fedalma  walked 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  197 

Tearless,  erect,  following  the  dead — her  cries 
Deep  smothering  in  her  breast,  as  one  who  guides 
Her  children  through  the  wilds,  and  sees  and  knows 
Of  danger  more  than  they,  and  feels  more  pangs, 
Yet  shrinks  not,  groans  not,  bearing  in  her  heart 
Their  ignorant  misery  and  their  trust  in  her. 


BOOK  V. 

THE  eastward  rocks  of  Almeria's  bay 

Answer  long  farewells  of  the  travelling  sun 

With  softest  glow  as  from  an  inward  pulse 

Changing  and  flushing  :  all  the  Moorish  ships 

Seem  conscious. too,  and  shoot  out  sudden  shadows; 

Their  black  hulls  snatch  a  glory,  and  their  sails 

Show  variegated  radiance,  gently  stirred 

Like  broad  wings  poised.     Two  galleys  moored  apart 

Show  decks  as  busy  as  a  home  of  ants 

Storing  new  forage  ;  from  their  sides  the  boats, 

Slowly  pushed  off,  anon  with  flashing  oar 

Make  transit  to  the  quay's  smooth-quarried  edge, 

Where  throngir.g  Gypsies  are  in  haste  to  lade 

Each  as  it  comes  with  grandames,  babes  and  wives, 

Or  with  dust-tinted  goods,  the  company 

Of  wandering  years.     Nought  seems  to  lie  unmoved, 

For  'mid  the  throng  the  lights  and  shadows  play, 

And  make  all  surface  eager,  while  the  boats 

Sway  restless  as  a  horse  that  heard  the  shouts 

And  surging  hum  incessant.     Naked  limbs 

With  beauteous  ease  bend,  lift,  and  throw,  or  raise 

High  signalling  hands.     The  black-haired  mothe  rsteps 

Athwart  the  boat's  edge,  and  with  opened  arms, 

A  wandering  Isis  outcast  from  the  gods, 

Leans  toward  her  lifted  little  one.     The  boat 

Full-laden  cuts  the  waves,  and  dirge-like  cries 

Rise  and  then  fall  within  it  as  it  moves 

From  high  to  lower  and  from  bright  to  dark. 

Hither  and  thither,  grave  white-turbaned  Moors 

Move  helpfully,  and  some  bring  welcome  gifts, 

Bright  stuffs  and  cutlery,  and  bags  of  seed 

To  make  new  waving  crops  in  Africa. 

Others  aloof  with  folded  arms  slow-eyed 

Survey  man's  labor,  saying  "  Cod  is  great  "  ; 


Or  seek  with  question  deep  the  Gypsies'  root, 

And  whether  their  false  faith,  being  small,  will  prove 

Less  damning  than  the  copious  false  creeds 

Of  Jews  and  Christians  :  Moslem  subtlety 

Found  balanced  reasons,  warranting  suspense 

As  to  whose  hell  was  deepest — 'twas  enough 

That  there  was  room  for  all.     Thus  the  sedate. 

The  younger  heads  were  busy  with  the  tale 

Of  that  great  Chief  whose  exploits  helped  the  Moor. 

And,  talking  still,  they  shouldered  past  their  frwnds 

Following  some  lure  which  held  their  distant  gaze 

To  eastward  of  the  quay,  where  yet  remained 

A  low  black  tent  close  guarded  all  around 

By  well-armed  Gypsies.     Fronting  it  above, 

Raised  by  stone  steps  that  sought  a  jutting  strand, 

Fedalma  stood  and  marked  with  anxious  watch 

Each  laden  boat  the  remnant  lessening 

Of  cargo  on  the  shore,  or  traced  the  course 

Of  Nadar  to  and  fro  in  hard  command 

Of  noisy  tumult ;  imaging  oft  anew 

How  much  of  labor  still  deferred  the  hour 

When  they  must  lift  the  boat  and  bear  away 

Her  father's  coffin,  and  her  feet  must  quit 

This  shore  forever.     Motionless  she  stood, 

Black-crowned  with  wreaths  of  many-shadowed  hair  ; 

Black-robed,  but  bearing  wide  upon  her  breast 

Her  father's  golden  necklace  and  his  badge. 

Her  limbs  were  motionless,  but  in  her  eyes 

And  in  her  breathing  lip's  soft  tremulous  curve 

Was  intense  motion  as  of  prisoned  fire 

Escaping  subtly  in  outleaping  thought, 

She  watches  anxiously,  and  yet  she  dreams  : 
The  busy  moments  now  expand,  now  shrink 
To  narrowing  ewarms  within  the  refluent  space 
Of  changeful  consciousness.     For  in  her  thought 
Already  she  has  left  the  fading  shore, 
Sails  with  her  people,  seeks  an  unknown  land, 
And  bears  the  burning  length  of  weary  days 
That  parching  fall  upon  her  father's  hope, 
Which  she  must  plant  and  see  it  wither  only—- 
Wither and  die.     She  saw  the  end  begun. 
The  Gypsy  hearts  were  not  unfaithful :  she 
Wa»  centre  to  the  savag-  loyiity 


THE    SPANISH    GVPSY.  {99 

Which  vowed  obedience  to  Zarca  dead. 

But  soon  their  natures  missed  the  constant  stress 

Of  his  command,  that,  while  it  fired,  restrained 

By  urgency  supreme,  and  left  no  play 

To  fickle  impulse  scattering  desire. 

They  loved  their  Queen,  trusted  in  Zarca's  child, 

Would  bear  her  o'er  the  desert  on  their  arms 

And  think  the  weight  a  gladsome  victory  ; 

But  that  great  force  which  knit  them  into  one, 

The  invisible  passion  of  her  father's  soul, 

That  wrought  them  visibly  into  his  will, 

And  would  have  bound  their  lives  with  permanence, 

Was  gone.     Already,  Hassan  and  two  bands, 

Drawn  by  fresh  baits  of  gain,  had  newly  SOIG 

Their  service  to  the  Moors,  despite  her  call, 

Known  as  the  echo  of  her  father's  will, 

To  all  the  tribe,  that  they  should  pass  with  her 

Straightway  to  Telemsan.     They  were  not  moved 

By  worse  rebellion  than  the  wilful  wish 

To  fashion  their  own  service  ;  they  still  meant 

To  come  when  it  should  suit  them.     But  she  said, 

This  is  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 

Sure-threatening.     In  a  little  while,  the  tribe 

That  was  to  be  the  ensign  of  the  race, 

And  draw  it  into  conscious  union, 

Itself  would  break  in  small  and  scattered  bands 

That,  living  on  scant  prey,  would  still  disperse 

And  propagate  forgetf ulness.     Brief  years, 

And  that  great  purpose  fed  with  vital  fire 

That  might  have  glowed  for  half  a  century, 

Subduing,  quickening,  shaping,  like  a  sun — 

Would  be  a  faint  tradition,  flickering  low 

In  dying  memories,  fringing  with  dim  light 

The  nearer  dark. 

Far,  far  the  future  stretched 
Beyond  that  busy  present  on  the  quay, 
Far  her  straight  path  beyond  it.     Yet  she  watched 
To  mark  the  growing  hour,  and  yet  in  dream 
Alternate  she  beheld  another  track, 
And  felt  herself  unseen  pursuing  it 
Close  to  a  wanderer,  who  with  haggard  gaze 
Looked  out  on  loneliness.     The  backward  years— 
Oh,  she  would  not  forget  them — would  not  drink 
Of  waters  that  brought  rest,  while  he  far  off 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY. 

Remembered.     "  Father,  I  renounced  the  joy  » 
You  must  forgive  the  sorrow." 

So  she  stood, 

Her  struggling  life  compressed  into  that  hour, 
Yearning,  resolving,  conquering  ;    though  she  seemed 
Still  as  a  tutelary  image  sent 
To  guard  her  people  and  to  be  the  strength 
Of  some  rock-citadel. 

Below  her  sat 

Slim  mischievous  Hinda,  happy,  red-bedecked 
With  rows  of  berries,  grinning,  nodding  oft, 
And  shaking  high  her  small  dark  arm  and  hand 
Responsive  to  the  black-maned  Ismael, 
Who  held  aloft  his  spoil,  and  clad  in  skins 
Seemed  the  Bay-prophet  of  the  wilderness 
Escaped  from  tasks  prophetic.     But  anon 
Hinda  would  backward  turn  upon  her  knees. 
And  like  a  pretty  loving  hound  would  bend 
To  fondle  her  Queen's  feet,  then  lift  her  head 
Hoping  to  feel  the  gently  pressing  palm 
Which  touched  the  deeper  sense.     Fedalma  knew— 
From  out  the  black  robe  stretched  her  speaking  hand 
And  shared  the  girl's  content. 

So  the  dire  hours 

Burdened  with  destiny — the  death  of  hopes 
Darkening  long  generations,  or  the  birth 
Of  thoughts  undying — such  hours  sweep  along 
In  their  aerial  ocean  measureless 
Myriads  of  little  joys,  that  ripen  sweet 
And  soothe  the  sorrowful  spirit  of  the  world, 
Groaning  and  travailling  with  the  painful  birth 
Of  slow  redemption. 

But  emerging  now 

From  eastward  fringing  lines  of  idling  men 
Quick  Juan  lightly  sought  the  upward  steps 
Behind  Fedalma,  and  two  paces  off, 
With  head  uncovered,  said  in  gentle  tones. 
Lady  Fedalma  !  " — (Juan's  password  now 
Used  by  no  other),  and  Fedalma  turned, 
Knowing  who  sought  her.     He  advanced  a  step, 
And  meeting  straight  her  large  calm  questioning  gaze, 
Warned  her  of  some  grave  purport  by  a  face 
Th-?t  told  of  trouble.     Lower  still  he  spoke 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  2Oi 

JUAN. 

Look  from  me,  lady,  toward  a  moving  form 
That  quits  the  crowd  and  seeks  the  lonelier  strand— 

A  tall  and  gray-clad  pilgrim. 

[Solemnly 

His  low  tones  fell  on  her,  as  if  she  passed 
Into  religious  dimness  among  tombs, 
And  trod  on  names  in  everlasting  rest. 
Lingeringly  she  looked,  and  then  with  voice 
Deep  and  yet  soft,  like  notes  from  some  long  chord 
Responsive  to  thrilled  air,  said — ] 

FEOALMA. 

It  is  he! 

[Juan  kept  silence  for  a  little  space, 
With  reverent  caution,  lest  his  lighter  grief 
Might  seem  a  wanton  touch  upon  her  pain. 
But  time  was  urging  him  with  visible  flight, 
Changing  the  shadows  :  he  must  utter  all.J 

JUAN. 

That  man  was  young  when  last  I  pressed  his  hand- 
In  that  dread  moment  when  he  left  Bedmar. 
He  has  aged  since,  the  week  has  made  him  gray. 
And  yet  I  knew  him — knew  the  white-streaked  hair 
Before  I  saw  his  face,  as  I  should  know 
The  tear-dimmed  writing  of  a  friend.     See  now — 
Does  he  not  linger — pause  ? perhaps  expect 

[Juan  pled  timidly  :  Fedalma's  eyes 

Flashed  ;  and  through  all  her  frame  there  ran  the  shock 

Of  some  sharp-wounding  joy,  like  his  who  hastes 

And  dreads  to  come  too  late,  and  comes  in  time 

To  press  a  loved  hand  dying.     She  was  mute 

And  made  no  gesture :    all  her  being  paused 

In  resolution,  as  some  leonine  wave 

That  makes  a  moment's  silence  ere  it  leaps.] 

JUAN. 

He  came  from  Carthagena,  in  a  boat 
Too  slight  for  safety  ;  yon  small  two-oared  boat 
Below  the  rock  ;  the  fisher-boy  within 
Awaits  his  signal.     But  the  pilgrim  waits. 

FEDALMA. 
Yes,  I  will  go  ! — Father,  I  owe  him  this 


THE     SPANISH     GYPSY 

For  loving  me  made  all  his  misery. 

And  we  will  look  once  more — will  say  farewell 

As  in  a  solemn  rite  to  strengthen  us 

For  our  eternal  parting.     Juan,  stay 

Here  in  my  place,  to  warn  me,  were  there  need. 

And,  Hinda,  follow  me  ! 

[All  men  who  watched 
Lost  her  regretfully,  then  drew  content 
From  thought  that  she  must  quickly  come  again, 
And  filled  the  time  with  striving  to  be  near. 

She,  down  the  steps,  along  the  sandy  brink 

To  where  he  stood,  walked  firm  ;  with  quickened  step 

The  moment  when  each  felt  the  other  saw. 

He  moved  at  sight  of  her:  their  glances  met  ; 

It  seemed  they  could  no  more  remain  aloof 

Than  nearing  waters  hurrying  into  one. 

Yet  their  steps  slackened  and  they  paused  apart, 

Pressed  backward  by  the  force  of  memories 

Which  reigned  supreme  as  death  above  desire. 

Two  paces  off  they  stood  and  silently 

Looked  at  each  other.     Was  it  well  to  speak  ? 

Could  speech  be  clearer,  stronger,  tell  them  more 

Than  that  long  gaze  of  their  renouncing  love  ? 

They  passed  from  silence  hardly  knowing  how ; 

It  seemed  they  heard  each  other's  thought  before.] 

DON  SILVA. 

I  go  to  be  absolved,  to  have  my  life 

Washed  into  fitness  for  an  offering 

To  injured  Spain.     But  I  have  nought  to  give 

For  that  last  injury  to  her  I  loved 

Better  than  I  loved  Spain.     I  am  accurst 

Above  all  sinners,  being  made  the  curse 

Of  her  I  sinned  for.     Pardon  ?  Penitence  f 

When  they  have  done  their  utmost,  still  beyond 

Out  of  their  reach  stands  Injury  unchanged 

And  changeless.     I  should  see  it  still  in  heaven — 

Out  of  my  reach,  forever  in  my  sight  : 

Wearing  your  grief,  'twould  hide  the  smiling  seraphs. 

1  bring  no  puling  prayer,  Fedalma — ask 

No  balm  of  pardon  that  may  soothe  my  soul 

For  others'  bleeding  wounds  :  I  am  not  come 

To  say,  "  Forgive  me  "  :  you  must  not  forgive. 


THE    SPANISH    GYPSY.  3OJ 

For  you  must  see  me  ever  as  I  am — 
Your  father's 

FEDALMA. 

Speak  it  not  !     Calamity 
Comes  like  a  dehige  and  o'erflows  our  crimes, 
Till  sin  is  hidden  in  woe.     You — I — we  two, 
Grasping  we  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  delight, 
Opened  the  sluices  of  that  deep. 

DON  SILVA. 

We  two  ?— 
Fedalma,  you  were  blameless,  helpless. 

FEDALMA. 

No! 

It  shall  not  be  that  you  did  aught  alone. 
For  when  we  loved  I  willed  to  reign  in  you, 
And  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  day 
If  it  could  gladden  you  apart  from  me. 
And  so,  it  must  be  that  I  shared  each  deed 
Our  love  was  root  of. 

DON  SILVA. 

Dear  !  you  share  the  woe — 
Nay,  the  worst  dart  of  vengeance  fell  on  you. 

FEDALMA. 

Vengeance  !     She  does  but  sweep  us  with  her  skirts — 
She  takes  large  space,  and  lies  a  baleful  light 
Revolving  with  long  years — sees  children's  children, 
Blights  them  in  their  prime — Oh,  if  two  lovers  leaned 
To  breathe  one  air  and  spread  a  pestilence, 
They  would  but  lie  two  livid  victims  dead 
Amid  the  city  of  the  dying.     We 
With  our  poor  petty  lives  have  strangled  one 
That  ages  watch  for  vainly. 

DON  SILVA. 

Deep  despair 

Fills  all  your  tones  as  with  slow  agony. 
Speak  words  that  narrow  anguish  to  some  shape  ; 
Tell  me  what  dread  is  close  before  you  ? 

FEDALMA. 

None. 
No  dread,  but  clear  assurance  of  the  end. 


THE    SPANISH    GVPSY. 

My  father  held  within  his  mighty  frame 
A.  people's  life  :  great  futures  died  with  him 
Never  to  rise,  until  tke  time  shall  ripe 
Some  other  hero  with  the  will  to  save 
The  outcast  ZincalL 

DON  SUVA. 

And  yet  their  shout— 
1  heard  it — sounded  as  the  plenteous  rush 
Of  full-fed  sources,  shaking  their  wild  souls 
With  power  that  promised  sway. 

FEDAUIA. 

Ah,  yes,  that  shout 

Came  from  full  hearts  :  they  meant  obedience. 
But  they  are  orphaned  :  their  poor  childish  feet 
Are  vagabond  in  spite  of  love,  and  stray 
Forgetful  after  little  lures.     For  me— 
I  am  but  as  the  funeral  urn  that  bears 
The  ashes  of  a  leader. 

DON  SILVA. 

0  great  God ! 
What  am  I  but  a  miserable  brand 

Lit  by  mysterious  wrath  ?    I  lie  cast  down 
A  blackened  branch  upon  the  desolate  ground 
Where  once  I  kindled  ruin.     I  shall  drink 
No  cup  of  purest  water  but  will  taste 
Bitter  with  thy  lone  hopelessness.,  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 
A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  sole  path 

Which  she  will  tread  till  death 

He  trusted  me,  and  I  will  keep  his  trust: 

My  life  shall  be  its  temple.    I  will  plant 

His  sacred  hope  within  the  sanctuary 

And  die  its  priestess — though  I  die  alone, 

A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar-step, 

Cold  'mid  cold  ashes.     That  is  my  chief  good. 

The  deepest  hunger  of  a  faithful  heart 

Is  faithfulness.     Wish  me  nought  else.     And  you-*-- 

You  too  will  live 

DON  SILVA. 

1  go  to  Rome,  to  seek 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  305 

The  right  to  use  my  knightly  sword  again  ; 

The  right  to  fill  my  place  and  live  or  die 

So  that  all  Spaniards  shall  not  curse  my  name. 

I  sat  one  hour  upon  the  barren  rock 

And  longed  to  kill  myself  ;  but  then  I  said, 

I  will  not  leave  my  name  in  infamy, 

I  will  not  be  perpetual  rottenness 

Upon  the  Spaniard's  air.     If  I  must  sink 

At  last  to  hell,  I  will  not  take  my  stand 

Among  the  coward  crew  who  could  not  bear 

The  harm  themselves  had  done,  which  others  bore. 

My  young  life  yet  may  fill  some  fatal  breach, 

And  I  will  take  no  pardon,  not  my  own, 

Not  God^ — no  pardon  idly  on  my  knees  : 

But  it  shall  come  to  me  upon  my  feet 

\nd  in  the  thick  of  action,  and  each  deed 

That  carried  shame  and  wrong  shall  be  the  sting 

That  drives  me  higher  up  the  steep  of  honor 

In  deeds  of  duteous  service  to  that  Spain 

Who  nourished  me  on  her  expectant  breast, 

The  heir  of  highest  gifts.     I  will  not  fling 

My  earthly  being  down  for  carrion 

To  fill  the  air  with  loathing  :  I  will  be 

The  living  prey  of  some  fierce  noble  death 

That  leaps  upon  me  while  I  move.     Aloud 

I  said,  "  I  will  redeem  my  name,"  and  then — 

I  know  not  if  aloud  :  I  felt  the  words 

Drinking  up  all  my  senses — "  She  still  lives. 

Jt  would  not  quit  the  dear  familiar  earth 

Where  both  of  us  behold  the  self-same  sun, 

Where  there  can  be  no  strangeness  'twixt  our  thoughts 

So  deep  as  their  communion."     Resolute 

I  rose  and  walked. — Fedalma,  think  of  me 

As  one  who  will  regain  the  only  life 

IVhere  he  is  other  than  apostate — one 

Who  seeks  but  to  renew  and  keep  the  vows 

Of  Spanish  knight  and  noble.     But  the  breach 

Outside  those  vows — the  fatal  second  breach — 

Lies  a  dark  gulf  where  I  have  nought  to  cast, 

Not  even  expiation — poor  pretence, 

Which  changes  nought  but  what  survives  the  past, 

And  raises  not  the  dead.     That  deep  dark  gulf 

Divides  us. 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY. 

FEDALMA. 

Yes,  forever.     We  must  walk 
Apart  unto  the  end.     Our  marriage  rite 
Is  our  resolve  that  we  will  each  be  true 
To  high  allegiance,  higher  than  our  love. 
Our  dear  young  love — its  breath  was  happiness ! 
But  it  had  grown  upon  a  larger  life 
Which  tore  its  roots  asunder.     We  rebelled — 
The  larger  life  subdued  us.     Yet  we  are  wed  ; 
For  we  shall  carry  each  the  pressure  deep 
Of  the  other's  soul.     I  soon  shall  leave  the  shore. 
The  winds  to-night  will  bear  me  far  away. 
My  lord,  farewell ! 

He  did  not  say  "  Farewell." 
But  neither  knew  that  he  was  silent.     She, 
For  one  long  moment,  moved  not.     They  knew  nought 
Save  that  they  parted  ;  for  their  mutual  gaze 
As  with  their  soul's  full  speech  forbade  their  hands 
To  seek  each  other — those  oft-clasping  hands 
Which  had  a  memory  of  their  own,  and  went 
Widowed  of  one  dear  touch  forevermore. 

At  last  she  turned  and  with  swift  movement  passed. 
Beckoning  to  Hinda,  who  was  bending  low 
And  lingered  still  to  wash  her  shells,  but  soon 
Leaping  and  scampering  followed,  while  her  Queen 
Mounted  the  steps  again  and  took  her  place, 
Which  Juan  rendered  silently. 

And  now 

The  press  upon  the  quay  was  thinned  ;  the  ground 
Was  cleared  of  cumbering  heaps,  the  eager  shouts 
Had  sunk,  and  left  a  murmur  more  restrained 
By  common  purpose.     All  the  men  ashore 
Were  gathering  into  ordered  companies, 
And  with  less  clamor  filled  the  waiting  boats 
As  if  the  speaking  light  commanded  them 
To  quiet  speed  :  for  now  the  farewell  glow 
Was  on  the  topmost  heights,  and  where  far  ships 
Were  southward  tending,  tranquil,  slow,  and  whitf 
Upon  the  luminous  meadow  toward  the  verge. 
The  quay  was  in  still  shadow,  and  the  boats 
Went  sombrely  upon  the  sombre  waves. 
Fedalma  watched  again  :  but  now  her  gaze 
Takf><?  in  the  eastward  bay,  where  that  small  hark 


THE    SPANISH     GYPSY.  3Of 

Which  held  the  fisher-boy  floats  weightier 
With  one  more  life,  that  rests  upon  the  oar, 
Watching  with  her.     He  would  not  go  away 
Till  she  was  gone  ;  he  would  not  turn  his  face 
Away  from  her  at  parting  :  but  the  sea 
Should  widen  slowly  'twixt  their  seeking  eyes. 

The  time  was  coming.     Nadar  had  approached. 

Was  the  Queen  ready  ?   Would  she  follow  now 

Her  father's  body  ?  For  the  largest  boat 

Was  waiting  at  the  quay,  the  last  strong  band 

Of  Zincali  had  ranged  themselves  in  lines 

To  guard  her  passage  and  to  follow  her. 

Yes,  I  am  ready  "  ;  and  with  action  prompt 

They  cast  aside  the  Gypsy's  wandering  tomb, 

And  fenced  the  space  from  curious  Moors  who  pressed 

To  see  Chief  Zarca's  coffin  as  it  lay. 

They  raised  it  slowly,  holding  it  aloft 

On  shoulders  proud  to  bear  the  heavy  load. 

Bound  on  the  coffin  lay  the  chieftain's  arms, 

His  Gypsy  garments  and  his  coat  of  mail. 

Fedalma  saw  the  burden  lifted  high, 

And  then  descending  followed.     All  was  still. 

The  Moors  aloof  could  hear  the  struggling  steps 

Beneath  the  lowered  burden  at  the  boat — 

The  struggling  calls  subdued,  till  safe  released 

It  lay  within,  the  space  around  it  filled 

By  black-haired  Gypsies.     Then  Fedalma  stepped 

From  off  the  shore  and  saw  it  flee  away — 

The  land  that  bred  her  helping  the  resolve 

Which  exiled  her  forever. 

It  was  night 

Before  the  ships  weighed  anchor  and  gave  sail : 
Fresh  Night  emergent  in  her  clearness,  lit 
By  the  large  crescent  moon,  with  Hesperus, 
And  those  great  stars  that  lead  the  eager  host. 
Fedalma  stood  and  watched  the  little  bark 
Lying  jet-black  upon  moon-whitened  waves. 
Silva  was  standing  too.     He  too  divined 
A  steadfast  form  that  held  him  with  its  thought, 
And  eyes  that  sought  him  vanishing :  he  saw 
The  waters  widen  slowly,  till  at  last 
Straining  he  gazed,  and  knew  not  if  he  gazed 
On  aught  but  blackness  overhung  by  stars. 


The  Superior  Series 

The  Best  Books  of  the  Best  Authors 

IN  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS ;  By  Paul  Allen. 

A  complete  story  graphically  told  about  the  discovery  of 
the  headwaters  of  the  Columbia  River. 

CAPTAINS   LEWIS  &   CLARKE   OF  THE  U.   S. 
ARMY;  By  Paul  Allen. 

A  history  of  the  Northwest  Expedition  during  the  years 
1804  to  1806,  by  order  of  the  Government  of  the  United 
States. 

EDMUND  DANTES;  By  Alexander  Dumas. 

The  sequel  to  The  Count  of  Monte  Christo,  one  of  the 
greatest  novels  ever  written. 

DIARY  OF  A  PILGRIMAGE  AND  SIX  ESSAYS; 
By  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 

Interesting  observations  made  by  a  Pilgrim  in  Germany 
and  at  the  Ober-Ammergau  Passion  Play. 

THE  DEMONIAC;  By  Walter  Besant. 

An  interesting  story  of  college  life  and  the  experiences 
of  a  young  man  possessed  with  a  strange  spirit. 

THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    WOLF;    By    Stanley    J. 
Weyman. 

A  modern  English  version  of  a  curious  French  Memoir 
written  about  the  year  1620  by  Anne  Vicounte  de  Caylus. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  POOR  YOUNG  MAN;  By 
Octave  Feuillet. 

A  comprehensive  entertaining  tale  written  in  an  enchant- 
ing style  that  will  keep  the  reader  interested  from  the  first 
chapter  to  the  last. 

JACK  AND  THREE  JILLS;  By  F.  C.  Philips. 

A  delightful  and  original  novel  that  bears  the  mark  of 
being  written  by  a  man  of  the  world  who  knew  how  to  enjoy 
himself. 


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CAPTAINS  LEWIS  &  CLARKE;  or  Adventures  in 
The  Northwest  Territory.     By  Paul  Allen. 
A  true  story  of  Adventures  on  the  Missouri. 

IN  CAMP  ON  WHITE  BEAR  ISLAND ;  or  In  Con- 
flict with  The  Indians.     By  Paul  Allen. 

An  interesting  story  concerning  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  Northwest. 

A    SPECIAL    CORRESPONDENT;    or    The    Ad- 
ventures of  Claudius  Bombarnac.     By  Jules  Verne. 
Adventures  among  the  various  races  of  Central  Asia. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  OF  FRANCE;  By  John  S. 
C.  Abbott. 

Daughter  of  Francis  and  Marie  Theresa ;  married  Louis 
XVI.  The  author  has  pictured  the  great  gifts  and  powers  of 
Marie  Antoinette  as  well  as  her  faults  and  weaknesses. 

MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS ;  By  Jacob  Abbott 

An  intensely  interesting  story  of  a  lovely  woman  and  an 
unfortunate  queen.  She  was  proclaimed  Queen  of  Scotland 
ten  months  and  seven  days  after  her  birth. 

THE  CHESS  PLAYER;  and  Eleven  other  Masterful 

Stories  and  Essays.     By   Edgar  Allan   Poe. 
QUEEN  ELIZABETH;  By  Jacob  Abbott. 

A   complete   history   of    a   queen    who    dextei 
her  subjects   past  threatening  disaster   into  a  period  of  p 


MASTER    ROCKEFELLER'S    VOYAGE;    By    W. 
Clark  Russell. 

An  extremely  interesting  story  of  Tom  Rockafeller's  ex- 
periences aboard  the  good  ship  Lady  Violet. 

OUTWARD  BOUND;  By  Oliver  Optic. 

The  experiences  of  the  officers  and  crew  of  The  Young 
America,  also  a  full  description  of  the  routine  and  discipline 
of  the  ship. 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE;  By  Edward  Bulwer 
Lytton. 

A  collection  of  thoughts  and  sentiments  that  constitute 
the  romance  of  Youth,  also  faithful  descriptions  of  the  Rhine. 


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The  Superior  Series 

The  Best  Books  of  the  Best  Authors 


No.  Title  Author 

1  Strange  Adventures  of  Lucy  Smith 

F.  C.   Philips 

2  Light  that  Failed Rudyard  Kipling 

3  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man 

Octave  Feuillet 

4  The  Special  Correspondent Jules  Verne 

5  Silas  Marner George  Eliot 

6  Master  Rockafeller's  Voyage 

W.  Clark  Russell 

7  Mrs.  Fenton W.  E.  Norris 

8  The  Man  in  Black Stanley  J.  Weyman 

9  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd.  .Rudyard  Kipling 

10  Captains  Lewis  &  Clarke  of  U.  S.  Army .  . 

Paul  Allen 

11  Outward  Bound Oliver  Optic 

12  Diary  of  a  Pilgrimage. .  .Jerome  K.  Jerome 

13  The  Half  Caste 

14  In  the  Rocky  Mountains Paul  Allen 

15  House  of  the  Wolf Stanley  J.  Weyman 

16  American  Girl  in  London .  Jeannette  Duncan 

17  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.  .Edw.  Bulwer  Lytton 

18  Secret  of  Her  Life Edward  Jenkins 


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DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIl 


The 


The  Best  Books  of  the  Best  Authors 


No.  Title  Author 

19  Demoniac Walter  Besant 

20  Up  the  Missouri  with  Lewis  &  Clarke. . 

Paul  Allen 

21  A  Fallen  Idol F.  Anstey 

22  A  Window  in  Thrums. . .  .James  M.  Barrie 

23  In  Camp  on  White  Bear  Island . .  Paul  Allen 

24  The  Chess  Player Edgar  Allan  Poe 

25  Jack  and  Three  Jills F.  C.  Philips 

26  Girls  of  the  Forest Mrs.  L.  T.  Meade 

27  The  Spanish  Gypsy George  Eliot 

28  Aylwyn's  Friends Mrs.  L.  T.  Meade 

29  Elizabeth  of  England Jacob  Abbott 

30  Alfred  the  Great Jacob  Abbott 

31  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots Jacob  Abbott 

32  New  Arabian  Nights R.  L.  Stevenson 

33  Edmund  Dantes Alexander  Dumas 

34  Alexander  the  Great Jacob  Abbott 

35  Marie  Antoinette John  S.  C.  Abbott 

36  Wuthering  Heights Emily  Bronte 


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